


Frustrating

by OmniGamer



Series: Daedric Captivation [2]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Accidental Plot, Anal, F/M, Femdom, Initial one-sided attraction, Light Bondage, M/M, Slow Build, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-22
Updated: 2017-06-28
Packaged: 2018-09-19 07:40:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 44,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9427184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OmniGamer/pseuds/OmniGamer
Summary: Mephala won the last round and Hermaeus Mora isn't about to give up so easily, but is Mora's reason still the same as before... or has something changed?Caught between a Daedric sibling rivalry, Rowan just wants his life to go back to normal. Unfortunately for him, where Daedra are involved, that's going to be the last thing fate has in store.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I had to much fun writing the first one... so here's the sequel no one asked for.  
> Accidental plot as in, plot that happened when I was initially trying to write something less plot involved.  
>   
> As an additional side note, reading 'Vexing' is not required to understand what is going on in this story (though you can if you want). Gaps are filled in as they come up...

_ Slow kisses trace his jaw. There was no loving in the actions, just  _ **_possession_ ** . _ The blindfold tied across his eyes prevents him from seeing his would-be lover, but it doesn't stop him from feeling her lithe figure straddling him. _

_His body strains against the bindings holding him, preventing him from reaching for her, touching her. But that's just how she wanted things._ ** _Him, feeling completely helpless and in her control._** _He feels her perfectly rounded breasts pressing against him, and he can't help the twinge of interest his cock gives. A sharp grin presses against his throat as clawed fingers grasp his hardening member._

_ She whispers; the sound no more than a low grumble as the words brush his ear. "You're mine." _

****

Rowan woke panting into the crisp night air. The dreams-  _ nightmares _ , he corrected quickly with a shake of his head, have dogged his heels for a while now. Initially, he figured it Vaermina's work;  _ no doubt due to the grudge held since he aided a priest of Mara to destroy her famed Skull of Corruption. _ But, so far his dreams hadn't been the work of a Daedra… Or at least from any  _ other  _ Daedra that the aqua, recently turned angry-crimson, mark around his left eye would detect.

The Dragonborn sighed and fell back into the fur covered mattress, giving himself a few more seconds before he eventually pulled himself away from its comfort. Knowing he wouldn't be getting back to sleep anytime soon, he quickly pulled on a loose-fitting tunic and the leather boots set by the foot of his bed. As silently as he could, made his way down the stairs and out into the midnight quiet of Whiterun.

A single guard carrying a torch offered a curt nod as the Dragonborn made his way towards the Bannered Mare. The streets remained otherwise barren.

Just outside the inn, Rowan stopped and took the time to tie his dark hair back before he pushed on the doors. The double doors swung open with relative ease, and a few of the tavern's sparse patrons spared a glance from their drinks as he entered.

"Again?" asked Hulda as he slid into an open barstool.

"Yeah."

"Wanna talk about it?"

"Still rather not Hulda."

She shrugged, not pressing the issue further. "The usual?" He nodded, and she set a tankard of hot spiced wine in front of him.

To Rowan's sleep-deprived self, the already warmed drink came as a surprise and he eyed it with suspicion. To his slightly more coherent self, it wasn't a far stretch on Hulda's part - seeing as he came in almost nightly in the last month. He dragged the drink towards himself and took a sip of the clove and ginger scented beverage.

"Now here's a man who looks like he knows how to drink," stated a somewhat inebriated individual from beside him.

Not noticing the stranger before now, Rowan turned to him warily. The man was a Breton - his thin jawline and the slight point to his ears gave that much away. The thick red line across the stranger's face indicated just how much he had to drink. "Not as much as you friend."

The stranger let out a loud guffaw. "Name's Sam Guevenne."

"Rowan." He offered his hand to the stranger seeing no harm. The Breton seemed friendly enough.

"Pleasure," Sam slurred, gripping tightly.

Rowan winced as pain lanced through his tattoo, lasting just as long as the handshake.

Sam watched him with a calculative look - strange for how drunk he supposedly was. "So how 'bout a drinking contest?"

"A what now?"

"A contest," the Breton repeated cheerily, half raising his own mug. "We'll get a few drinks, a few laughs, and a contest. What could be better?"

The air tingled between the pair parked at the bar, and Rowan's mark began pulsing this time, the pain slowly mounting the longer he thought about accepting Sam's challenge. "I'm... going to have to decline."

The Breton's previous enthusiasm fell. "Maybe you just aren't up to the challenge." He stood, his black robes barely rustling as he did so, and gave Rowan a brief pat on the shoulder as he passed. "Tell Mephala I said 'hello'."

Rowan's eyes followed the stranger, and for a moment the Dragonborn swore he caught sight of red-tattooed skin and heavy Daedric armor.

After the night he's been having, he probably did see it. 

His fingers curled reflexively around his mug and he took a deep swig, trying to ignore the lingering tingle in his tattoo.

****

Feeling slightly buzzed and annoyed, Rowan sauntered towards the city's gates. "Can you open up the gate?"

"What for?"

"Need to go for a walk. Possibly blow off some steam."

"At this hour?"

In place of Rowan's response, the guard contemplated his discontented expression.

"Well, since it's you, I don't see the harm. Just don't let anyone know I did this favor for you."

"Wouldn't think of it," Rowan said, giving the guard a short wave as he squeezed through the small opening made for him.

****

Somehow, the air felt clearer outside the city's stone walls - albeit much colder thanks to the lack of brightly burning braziers. He was tempted to get his horse from the stables but ultimately didn't as he made his way towards Heljarchen. He would have felt guilty waking the stable hands at this hour - not to mention he felt like he needed the exercise.

****

The trip didn't take him long, but he was winded from running the distance regardless. Rowan turned back to face Whiterun, somewhat pleased that he could still see the keep from his front door on such a clear night. As he turned to face the Hall’s doors, the pleasant moment soured. He never did take Orgnar's advice: he never did tell Lydia about the second home he built, and he sure as Oblivion never asked her to marry him.

The Amulet of Mara taunted him from where he buried it under the front step, teasing him about a life he could've had. But he  _ couldn't. _ Not after what had transpired. Not after the deal he was forced into, and what it could mean for his future. He wanted Lydia to be happy, to find someone who could always be there for her, and now he couldn't guarantee he could be that person.

Rowan stepped over the threshold, painfully aware of how empty the large house really was. The empty place had become his refuge, the only ones who knew about it were himself and an innkeeper in Riverwood – a man who would likely take its location to his grave should Rowan ask it.

The Dragonborn crouched in front of the large stone-worked fireplace and tossed a few dry logs into the cold ashes. With a bit of concentration he got it lit with a simple flames spell - one he's been practicing since his last disastrous adventure. The fire sparked and crackled as its heat chased away the early spring chill that had fallen about the place, and Rowan smirked at the one small success he had all day. Once he was satisfied that the fire wasn't about to go out, the Dragonborn headed towards the built-in greenhouse. 

He was glad to see that nothing had died while he was away, and once again, silently thanked Orgnar for how to channel rain and melted snow to water his plants during his frequent periods of absence. It was too cold outside for any flowers to be growing yet, but inside, Rowan had managed to cultivate red and blue mountain flowers, blisterwort, and dragon's tongue - just to name a few. Most of them he used for potions, but the dragon's tongue was a little more special.

More than once, he'd come back from some adventure or other to have Lydia chasing him down, her duties as housecarl temporary forgotten, as she berates him for leaving her behind yet again. It ended up being a night at the Bannered Mare, as Lydia had paid the guards to ensure he didn't leave Whiterun without her escort. As such, his usual consult was no longer an option; Hulda recommended flowers in Orgnar's sted.

****

_ "Flowers," states the woman, no hint of hesitation to her voice. _

_ "Flowers?" Rowan asks skeptically, not quite sure he heard right. "Don't women like jewels, rings, that sort of thing?" _

_ "Trust me. Bring her some flowers, and not just the ones that grow immediately outside the city, I mean go and look for something special. And if I see you going to Arcadia's Cauldron, I'll smack you one," she warns, passing him a mug of ale. _

_ "Duly noted." He raises the mug in mock cheer and takes a swig. "Still need to get out of the city though..." _

_ "I think I can get something arranged." _

****

Rowan would never forget that trip to Kynesgrove or the awkward second glances as he carried the dragon's tongue back to Whiterun. In his defense, he wasn't sure that the poor thing wouldn't just wilt on his way back, so he took extra care to dig up the root ball and settle the plant in a pot he had bought second-hand.

It had been worth it in the end. Somehow Lydia started giving him more leeway with his 'quests', and she'd always smile if he gave her one when he returned, often muttering, "At least you're back."

_ But seeing them now?  _ Rowan reached out, his hand threatening to crush the delicate blooms.

The flower seemingly cringed away from his touch as his fingers brushed over its yellow petals, the muscles in his hand tensing but not doing anything. Finally, he sighed and let his hand drop away. If he let this type of thing get to him, then Mephala's already won. He knew the Daedra had planned this out, had wanted to see his relationship crumble away. It's the only thing that makes sense knowing her interest in interfering with mortal affairs.

The Dragonborn considered the spider web resting amid the rafters; its occupant a hideous, bulbous thing. It wasn’t the same one as before - that one he killed when he found it - but seeing the web reconstructed in the exact same location gave him pause to killing the second, but only a pause. The current spider was the third, sitting so innocuously in the middle of its spun home. He decided to let the thing be. No doubt it would quickly be replaced even if he did something about it.  _ At least it kept down the insect population that seemed so rampant outside the city walls. _

Rowan cast one last glare at the ugly thing before wandering away to the empty double bed upstairs.

****

He didn't remember falling asleep, but that could be the only explanation for the situation he found himself in.

"You seem tense," the Daedra observed as she lazily stretched out across the furs, the movements accenting her moonlight pale curves barely hidden beneath a silken black robe.

"No thanks to you," he muttered sardonically.

Mephala hummed, her expression unreadable, the hood of her robe cutting a dark line across her face and hiding her crimson eyes from sight. "But I thought you enjoyed these dreams, at least, your little friend seemed to."

He growled, but part of him has already taken interest in the creamy slice of hip that slipped out from under the open robe. Ashamed, he looked away. The Daedra chuckled and she shifted ever so slightly over the mattress - a little more skin just ready to present itself should he look up again.

"Oh, come on," she purred with the barest hint of a pout.

"After all the effort I put into finding you." Her voice had grown deeper, and he risked a cursory glance at the reclining Daedra. 

A stranger laid in Mephala's place; the silvery pale skin had taken on a sickly green hue. The Daedra's generous curves had transformed into hard masculine edges. "Won't you at least indulge me?" The stranger's voice had completely taken on a slow drawl, which contrasted greatly with how fast he had appeared inches away, no longer lounging on the bed.

Startled by the sudden movement, Rowan backed up, bumping into the low chest behind him. His knees buckled and it sent him tumbling over its surface. He managed to stop himself by propping his arms up against the nearby wall, but it definitely wasn’t the best of positions to be in.

The stranger bent over Rowan, boxing in the Dragonborn between outstretched arms. A smirk crept onto the hooded stranger's face as he slid between Rowan's parted legs, and delicately thin fingers dragged over the waistband of his linen slacks.

Rowan swallowed around the hard lump in his throat, unable to tear his gaze away from the ethereal stranger tugging his pants down to his knees. He felt exposed and knew if he tried to do anything to hide his freed member, he'd likely end up in an even more compromising position –  _ if that was even possible _ .

As the stranger eyed him appreciatively, Rowan managed to croak out, "W-wait," in a desperate attempt to get control over the situation. If things were going where he thought they were, it was moving a little too quickly. 

_ He didn’t even know the stranger’s name. _

The stranger's predatory expression softened. "I can't. I need this," was all the stranger spared him as he lined up his cock between Rowan's cheeks and pushed in dry.

The Dragonborn's tender hole clenched against the rough intrusion and his eyes clamped tight in response to that bundle of nerves being rammed so expertly. For a moment, his head lolled back and smacked into the wall behind him, drawing a groan from his lips.

"You," the hooded stranger said, rocking his hips back then thrusting forwards again, eliciting another restrained moan. "You have no idea." The stranger's thin lips crashed into Rowan's own, his blue eyes widening at the unexpected contact. A tongue brushed up against his teeth, imploring him to open his mouth further. He complied reluctantly as his jaw was forced open by the slimy appendage.

Rowan couldn't pull away from the strong hands that wrapped themselves through his brown hair, and more importantly, he couldn't breathe. He struggled in the stranger's grip, trying to turn away so he could draw in a breath.

Sensing his increasing distress, the stranger relented, choosing instead to cup the Dragonborn's face. The stranger’s thumbs fondly brushed soft lines beneath his eyes. "I can't let her have you."

****

Rowan woke with the wooden bartop pressing its rough grain into the side of his face, and a horrible crick in his neck. Hulda must have given up on him and went to bed herself - seeing as he was alone and the room's fire pit had burned down to coals.

He rubbed a hand down his face to wipe away the remnants of sleep. That was a first, and the first time his mark burned from a dream. 

_ Who had found him?  _

Rowan didn't recognize the male, but he had been eerily familiar - his voice more so. His eyes widened the longer he thought about it.  _ Gods above.  _ He slammed his head back onto the bar top. 

_ Mora wasn't done with him. _


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mora is new to the feels and doesn't know how to deal. Mephala's taking advantage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little behind the scenes of chapter 1, starring Mora.
> 
> Special shout-out to Riliame who reminded me that Mora and Vaermina are enemies/rivals, so I adjusted their conversation to reflect that fact a bit better.
> 
> Hey, Mora's Altmer form got some amazing fanart!! Check out Skitamine's work [here](http://skitamine.tumblr.com/post/164996715178/from)

Something rumbled in the distance of the dimly lit green world, and a platform of ancient works tumbled into the murky swamp below. Hermaeus Mora felt the familiar buzz of their knowledge, reminding him of their written contents, but there was no thrill about it.  _It just wasn't the same._

His mass of dark tendrils shifted and a Seeker set about retrieving the destroyed documents, but its movements were sluggish - a representation of his own lack of interest in restoring the pages.

"Is it just me, or has this place gotten even more dreary?" The familiar cheeky voice shattered the stifling silence of Apocrypha.

His many eyes drew towards the owner of the voice, narrowing in suspicion when they spied the heavily armored Daedric Prince toying with a book in his hand. "What do you want Sanguine?"

"Oh, you know, just thought I'd swing by to visit," Sanguine said, putting the tome back on a nearby stack.

"Hmmmm…" Hermaeus Mora hummed slowly, his momentary curiosity already lost. "Do what you will."

Sanguine raised a curious brow as he subtly pushed over a row of shelves, causing their contents to scatter.

The other Prince's actions were met with a sigh, Hermaeus Mora not willing to expend the energy necessary to tidy the sudden disarray.

"Aren't you a pathetic mess."

"Your realm is unlikely the epitome of cleanliness either. At least in mine, an effort is made."

Sanguine rested his hands on his hips. "True, but that's hardly what I've come here to talk about. I met with the Dragonborn."

Papers once swirling on the odorous breeze froze, suspended above the ground by unseen forces. "Where?" The Prince kept his voice level, but his realm easily gave away his sudden attentiveness to the unwanted visitor.

For months he's tried finding his champion; chasing down rumors, searching likely locations, even going so far as to consume various mortals' mundane memories.  _Nothing_. With his sibling hiding the mortal, it was if his champion was nowhere and everywhere. There was nothing concrete. It was  _infuriating_ , to say the least,  _yet how had Sanguine done what he could not?_

Sanguine looked thoughtful, his hand coming up to tap his chin. "Riften? Wait, wait, wait. Or was it Markarth? Oh, or maybe Windhelm?" The other Daedric Prince grinned up at him, an expression of juvenile expectancy written on his face.

Of course Sanguine wanted something in return. He wouldn't have come otherwise. "What do you want?"

"Hmmm... not what, more like who... I mean it's not fair if it's only you and Mephala get a piece."

The air trembled, and a few aggravated shrieks rose from his Seekers. An acidic pool hissed as steam ripped from its surface in a flurry of bubbles.

The other Daedric Prince tensed, if for a moment. "Well, have it your way." An Oblivion portal opened up behind him, and Sanguine turned to leave through it.

"Hold, Sanguine."

A knowing smirk crossed the other Daedric Prince's face. He stopped, and the portal snapped closed.

"What are your terms?"

Sanguine rubbed his palms together, turning back around on his heels. "That mark Mephala gave him," he started, dragging a finger down his left cheek. "Can you get rid of it?"

Hermaeus Mora had caught glimpses of the brand before Mephala had completely hidden his champion away. He knew what it was and how to remove it. Perhaps that had, in part, been why Mephala hid the mortal from him. "Yes," he replied eventually.

"Excellent." Sanguine clapped his hands together excitedly. "Because it's hampering my fun."

"Your... fun?"

"A night to remember… well, he might not remember. I can never tell how well mortals will deal with Daedric alcohol, especially ample amounts of it."

Another sigh. His mortal did have an appetence for alcohol, and no doubt would have jumped on the opportunity to drink with the Daedric Prince of Debauchery – intentionally or not. Likely, the threat of Mephala's brand was the only thing that had stopped the Nord from joining in the impromptu revelry. "Is that all?"

"Oh, probably not," said the other Daedric Prince cheerily, "but think of me as merely seeking visitation rights."

Hermaeus Mora was skeptical of Sanguine. Princes weren't well known for passing up opportunities for claiming powerful champions, and a Dragonborn always made an interesting prize. "You would pass on making him your champion?"

Sanguine laughed. "I'm smart enough to not to get myself involved in that rivalry you got going on with Mephala."

"Yet you would pick sides…"

Lacing his fingers behind his head, Sanguine hummed. "Let's just say, Mephala's less likely to share."

"And what makes you think I would?"

"We're still talking, aren't we?"

Another distant rumble. "Very well. Where is he?"

"Whiterun. The Bannered Mare. Just passed out on his fifth drink if you wanna peek."

****

He wasn't ready to meet his champion in person, not yet. Hermaeus Mora had his own suspicions as to why he couldn't find his champion before now, and he hated being unprepared. Instead, he sought out Vaermina in her nightmare realm, Quagmire, every fiber of his being reminding him how much he detested the idea.

As it were, the feeling was mutual, and only the mention of Mephala had allowed him an audience with the Daedric Prince of Dreams.

"And I would help you, why? Mephala has been doing well enough making  _that_  mortal's nights restless. Regretfully, more than I had managed."

Hermaeus Mora twitched, but he kept his thoughts out of his voice. "Would you defend her continued traipses into your territory?"

"That would be none of your concern, however, I... concede." Vaermina shifted uncomfortably, her slim-fitting robe rustling as her legs crossed over each other. Mephala's disregard for the Daedric Prince of Dreams clearly bothered her. "But, are you not seeking to do the same?"

His gelatinous form wasn't the easiest to act eloquently in, but coming in his bipedal form would have only served to make Vaermina further suspicious of his appearance before her. "I come asking your permission, and perhaps... make it worth your while."

Lightning flashed, and a thunderous boom cracked through the still air. The bloodied throne room warped, and gnarled trees took the place of its stone walls. The mass of twisted branches blocked out the pitch black sky above, and in the distance, someone screamed. Both Princes remained unperturbed by the abrupt change in scenery.

Vaemina laid back in her newly formed throne of mangled limbs. "I would have expected Sanguine to speak so, but such words coming from you... I am somewhat curious about your infatuation with the Nord."

"I would keep that private."

"I am sure, but the mortal has wronged me. How am I to ensure his punishment, especially if he has garnered  _your_ favor?"

"You can't; however, I believe I have something to buy his pardon."

"Oh? Do share Hermaeus Mora. It ought to be interesting at the very least."

He gestured, which to anyone else would have looked like an unintentional wriggle of a tentacle. A Lurker that had accompanied him stepped forward and presented a staff. The ram's skull perched at its top glowed brightly in the low light. "Your Skull of Corruption..."

He watched as Vaermina leaned forward, a look of surprise at seeing the relic whole again evident on her pointed features.

"And..." Hermaeus Mora wriggled again. This time a Seeker floated forward, clutching a heavy ancient tome tightly in its bony fingers. "The list of mortal fears for the next millennia, arranged by the individual."

"How generous you can be after all." She sat back, her fingers steepled before her as she seemingly contemplated the offer. "Very well. I shall permit it, but it shall be for that mortal only."

"I only ask as much," he answered, disappearing from her plane of Oblivion.

****

His suspicions had been correct. He still couldn't see the mortal slumped over the bar table - no doubt the reason why the Nord had slipped his sight for so long. Fortunately, with Vaermina's gifted magic, he could at least sense his champion slumbering nearby. 

_Mephala's concealment appeared to be reserved purely for him and his magic._

He sat beside the collection of tankards, counting four. A fifth was pulled near the table's edge, and Hermaeus Mora could almost see his mortal, that stern face finally relaxed, and a hand wrapped loosely around the latest drink. There was a pang in his chest and he began to regret coming in mortal form.

He could never understand the appeal it held for the other Princes. Feelings...  _desires_ clung to him like a heavy cloak, weighing down his borrowed form and burrowing into his mind long after he changed back. It was these feelings that had so disrupted his peace - not that he had felt the obligation to remove them, they weren't  _entirely_  unpleasant.

The Daedric Prince cast his field of invisibility wider, hoping it encompassed where his champion rested. He would rather this venture would go as uninterrupted for as long as possible.

****

Hermaeus Mora watched as the mortal backed away, and tripped on a conveniently placed wooden chest. 

 _How delicious the mortal looked sprawled before him_ , hips canted up ever so slightly along the curve of the lid, arms pressed behind to support that muscled weight from slipping into the gap between chest and wall. He bent over his mortal, watching with veiled eyes as the situation settled into the Nord's mind. Watching his mortal's adorable reactions, as his hands skimmed over sun-kissed skin and tugged open the belt holding up linen slacks.

"W-wait," his mortal's voice cracked, and Mora felt the organ throb in his chest again.

 _This was what he had been missing._ How he wished he could heed those words, just to take the time he needed to inspect every inch of the fragile flesh that housed his champion. But, he didn't have the time. The Daedric Prince could already feel Mephala trying to claw her way back into the dream he had ripped her from.

"I can't. I need this." It was a weak reason, but the truth. He could feel his discipline slipping. The longer he stared at his mortal before him, the more desire twisted through his constructed gut and tore at his reason like some rabid beast. 

_Perhaps, it was a mistake to come after all..._

He grabbed himself and pushed the blunt head into his mortal's warmth. His mortal took him to the hilt, and Mora's body shuddered as that warmth clenched around the rough intrusion. 

_But, it just felt so right._

A moan tore from his mortal's lips, and it was enough to drive restraint completely from the Prince's mind. "You," he said rocking into that perfectly tight heat once more. "You have no idea." He was filled with the desire for more, to just tear into his mortal and never let go. To make a home for himself, here in his mortal's thoughts forever.

His lips crashed into the Nord's own, and his eyes screwed shut at the bliss that arched through his spine.

Hermaeus Mora could feel his mortal resisting him, and it...  _hurt._  He wanted his mortal to want this as well, to need it as much as he did.  _It was only fair._  After all, the Nord made him want more. Made him want more than the knowledge trapped in that mind. The Nord made him  _want him, need him_.

Regretfully, he pulled away, his Nord's need of air overpowering any possible lust the mortal had felt in those short bliss filled moments. His eyes roamed over the brand that marked the mortal as his sibling's, and he rubbed a thumb gently over it in the vain hope it would disappear. "I can't let her have you."

****

"Hermaeus Mora." There was no humor in Mephala's voice, no sly witticism hiding in her tone. "You interfered."

"The mortal is my champion. I have the right."

"Indeed." She crossed her four blackened arms over her chest, and her brow furrowed. "But you lose your right on his death."

Hermaeus Mora suddenly knew the meaning behind the expression 'a knife in your gut', as an unpleasant feeling gripped his insides and twisted. "So would you," he said carefully.

A grin slipped onto her painted lips. "For once, brother that is where you are wrong."

He scanned her face. The Daedric Prince had not been prepared for her counter, yet he managed to keep his surprise from showing. She had helped his champion escape his realm,  _had that been the payment she had received?_   "Impossible," he stated - but his confidence had been shaken. "The Nord would never give up his seat in Sovngarde."

Mephala laughed, dark and harsh. "You were never the gambler....  _Mora_ , but how about a wager?" She had reappeared behind him, tracing a clawed hand over his fake shoulder. "If you can protect him from me for say... a year, then all rights to him are yours. Body... mind, and  _soul_ _._ "

He kept his body still, his eyes staring forward. "And if you win?"

"Then you will destroy every memory he has in that head of his. Every thought. Every idea." The Daedric Prince of Lies smiled, her crimson eyes glittering harshly against the green light of his realm.

"You would destroy everything that he is?"

"Oh, don't put it that way. It makes it sound so vulgar. I just want a blank slate, something I can mold. Something that has no desire for the Hall of Valor or its splendor..."

"Fine," he spat. Hermaeus Mora had done it before, and it was an easy enough task to do, but somehow, the thought of his mortal stripped down to nothing more than an empty shell sickened him.

"Then we're agreed. You have one year," she cackled, vanishing from his sight.

His fist clenched in the stillness of her departure, the first physical sign that Mephala's words affected him he allowed himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a side note, I've finally got a Tumblr cuz it seems that's what all the cool kids are using. Come hit me up at [keenunknownruins.tumblr.com](https://keenunknownruins.tumblr.com/) if you wanna say hi.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rowan's relationship with Lydia finally collapses (not without a little help from a certain Daedric Prince), Mephala ups her game, and Mora suffers his first panic attack. It's fun all around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rain or shine and even in the friggen middle of nowhere in a blizzard. Somehow a courier will always find you. They are magic I tell you... magic.

"There you are. Thought you walked out without saying goodbye."

Rowan startled when Hulda entered the room, her voice announcing her presence first. He rubbed his hands over his face, not quite yet ready to deal with his pounding head. "Still here Hulda, must have missed me taking a piss or something."

"Well, I'm glad I found you regardless."

"What? Why?" The slight panic to her words sobered him quickly.

"Lydia's tossing your things into the street. Seems she's had enough of you. I figure you need to clear some things up with her. From what I know about you, her accusations aren't making any sense."

He stood up quickly, drawing a harsh scrape as the stool dragged across the floor, and ran for the door.

"Who is she?" Lydia shouted at him, hurling a dragon's femur at his head when he drew close.

He ducked the bone, wincing as it thwacked heavily against the stone support behind him. "Who is what?" Rowan asked, genuinely confused.

"Oh, you don't get to play that game with me," she accused, pounding on his chest as he pulled a troll skull from her grip.

"Lydia," he gasped after the small woman got in a good punch to his sternum. "What are you on about?"

"What am I on about? Who have you been sneaking out to see every night?"

"I haven't-"

She slapped him, but that wasn't what shut him up. Tears had threatened to spill from her emerald eyes. "I'm sworn to protect you, but if you keep lying to me I can't do that. I can't do… _this_ anymore." Lydia gestured between the two of them.

"Lydia..."

"Don't. I don't want to hear it." Lydia threw a sack at his feet, its contents of clean slacks and shirts spilling out of the top. "I found this near the door. You've been planning to move out for a while now, haven't you?"

 _He had_ _,_ but he had wanted to move _with_ her, and he definitely didn't remember packing the bag - not this early. His eyes met hers and he couldn't find the words to explain his recent change in behavior towards her, at least not without sounding crazy or heretic.

He turned away to wordlessly gather up his scattered belongings, pushing them all into the rucksack gripped tightly in his hands. Rowan gave one last forlorn look back at the Nordic woman, and wordlessly he left, his steps echoed by her sobs.

****

It wasn't a surprise that he naturally arrived at Heljarchen Hall. The large homestead was already a prevalent feature in his dreams - no thanks to his nightly visitors.

Angrily, he tossed the rucksack into the entrance hall, not caring for how it knocked against a shelf and shook a vase from its perch.

If anything, it spurred him on.

Display cases and small tables were upturned. Glass and porcelain shattered. He hurled a lockbox against the wall where it stayed wedged in a newly formed hole.

In the end, nothing had been spared as he stood amid the wreckage of his front hall. Part of him wasn't done, but there was only so much his home could take before incurring permanent damage.

So, he went outside.

He was greeted by a courier: short, male, and poorly dressed for the early spring chill - especially for how close to the mountains they were. The courier didn't seem to notice.

"Letter for you. From Shor's Stone I believe. Seemed urgent."

The Dragonborn accepted the proffered letter with a mumbled "thank-you." His temper diffused quickly at the promise of a new quest.

"I believe that's all then," the courier announced, before turning around and heading back down the slush-covered path.

_Rowan,_

_I hope this letter finds you in good health, as it would seem our spider problem has manifested itself again._

_Normally, I wouldn't be bothering you about our problems, but several of the mine's workers haven't been so lucky this time round and I fear something far worse lurks in the mine's depths than just frostbite spiders._

_~ Filnjar_

Rowan folded up the parchment, noticing the courier had vanished in the short amount of time it took to read Filnjar's letter. His sword arm twitched at the prospect of battle, and his rushed back into the Hall to gather his equipment.

****

His horse, used to the luxury of Whiterun's stables, was less than thrilled to be back on the road and made it evident whenever possible. Rowan's favorite had been when the black mare had dragged his rucksack out from under his head, just as he had fallen asleep.

Fortunately, the trip to Shor's Stone took him less than a two days' ride. He rode into the small town near dusk and made his way to the old blacksmith still hammering on an equally old anvil.

"Filnjar!" Rowan shouted over the sound of pounding steel.

The blacksmith looked up and wiped a soot-covered arm across his forehead. "Took you long enough." Filnjar may have grumbled, but his tense stance from before had relaxed.

"Came as soon as I could. How's everyone holding up?"

First putting down his hammer, the blacksmith stepped off the porch. "As well as we can. Mostly just lost the new hires, and thank Oblivion the damned things seem content to just stay down there so we haven't lost anyone else, but..."

Filnjar didn't have to continue. The mine was the town's livelihood. "Got it."

"Thanks, Rowan. As much as I'd like this to be over as soon as possible, I can at least lend you a bed for the night - seeing as you just got here." Filnjar wiped his hands down the front of his leather apron and led the tired man and horse to his front door.

"Appreciated." Sleep didn't come easily anymore, though Rowan hoped that at least this night might be different.

****

Turned out, he was able to get some shut-eye - right before Filnjar shook him awake. "Rowan. Hey Rowan. We need you up."

"What's going on?"

"Don't know. Something's got the bloody bastards all agitated. They're swarming the entrance, attacking anything and everyone who remotely looks their way..."

Filnjar's urgency was catching, and the Dragonborn soon found himself rushing to get ready.

****

It was still dark when Rowan exited the old blacksmith's house, but a blaze stood out harshly against the moonless sky, illuminating the close entrance to the Redbelly mine.

The miners had formed a circle of torches, swinging them wildly when the frostbite spiders drew uncomfortably close. So far, it seemed to work. The spiders retreated, hissing and spitting against the bright flames. There was a murmured relief amongst the tired workers as Rowan came forward, his ebony armor reflecting the firelight in an angry red.

He drew his dragonbone blade from its scabbard, slicing the first frostbite spider in half. Another leapt at him, but he brought up his shield in time to catch the dog-sized spider. It scrabbled uselessly against the smooth contours of the ebony shield as he swung the entire thing backward, crushing it with its own momentum.

A cheer rose from the crowd and a few moved to join him with pitchforks and torches.

It didn't take long to beat the spiders back into the mines, but several of the men and women who fought with him had been injured. Grogmar gro-Burzag was one of the few mostly uninjured from the skirmish, and the Orc was keeping busy leading away those that had trouble walking.

"Grogmar," Rowan called as the Orc passed by. "I need to head deeper in to finish this. Can I trust you to watch the entrance for stragglers?"

"Of course. I still have the strongest arm out of this bunch."

The Dragonborn nodded, then descended into the belly of the mine.

****

Freshly spun webs coated the walls and wooden supports, and the clicking of claws echoed freely in the deep pit. It was dark. The torches resting in dug sconces, long since burned down to stubs. He tossed down his held burning torch, which tumbled head over tail, but remained lit where it finally came to rest. Without further abuse, the torch should have at least an hour's worth of light left.

Rowan made his way slowly, stepping over wrapped corpses and spider husks, encountering little to no resistance from the remaining frostbite spiders. When the Dragonborn arrived at the bottom, his feet were nearly obscured by the thick red mist that clung to the stone. His eyes scanned the high walls and central pillar, looking for whatever survived the earlier slaughter.

His attention snapped to a sudden giggle, and he raised his shield in time to catch the line of webbing that smacked into its polished surface. He played a brief game of tug-of-war until his footing began slipping, and begrudgingly, he let go of the shield. It was quickly whisked away in a cacophony of clatters and clangs. Rowan dodged the next strike, but misjudged his opponents aim, losing his sword in a similar fashion.

His hands lit up with destructive flames - that at least couldn't be taken from him.

A high pitched voice mocked him from the deep cut shadows. "Didn't your mother teach you not to play with fire?"

"Who's playing?" he called back, pivoting his stance towards where he guessed the voice had come from.

Something circled around his throat from behind, and he had just enough warning to raise an arm as it pulled tight.

With inhuman strength, he was ripped back into a series of wooden supports. The wind was punched from his lungs as his teeth bit into the meat of his cheek. And, despite the resounding crack of his impact, he was lucky; his back was only bruised, not broken.

The soft clicking grew closer, and the torch's glow revealed his twin attackers.

Filnjar was right. There was something worse than frostbite spiders skulking in the mine. _Spider Daedra._

Feminine shapes sat above giant spider carapaces, and a hard armored shell covered their bellies and breasts. The pair watched him. Their expressions full of malicious glee as the one that had lassoed him dragged him closer. "So you must be the Dragonborn. You've kept us waiting."

* * *

The first day, Hermaeus Mora ascribed to the possibility that his mortal had never fallen asleep, but as the hours passed on the second day, he knew something was amiss.

He had already checked the Nord's home and the Bannered Mare. He had stopped briefly in the Drunken Huntsman and inspected the guild hall of the Companions, but there had been no sign of his champion.

Sobs he normally would have ignored, attracted his attention. It was the woman his mortal had been so fond of, hugging herself tightly as she sat on the steps leading to Breezehome.

Reluctantly, he touched her memories.

 _Hurt. Confusion. Memories frayed and tied back haphazardly._ Crude but effective.

Hermaeus Mora recognized the work, and he retreated quickly from the tangled web of lies ready to catch him if he pried further.

If Mephala had driven his mortal from Whiterun, _w_ _hen had he left? And where was he now?_

There was only one individual who he knew kept such close tabs on the mortals of Tamriel - provided there had been a letter in recent possession.

 _The Courier_.

* * *

"What a pretty thing you are," the Spider Daedra teased, as the other added the finishing touches to the web that held Rowan pinned against the cavern's central pillar. "Would be a shame to kill you before having a taste."

"Shame you're a damn ugly thing or this might have actually been enjoyable." He tried reaching for his magic again, but his pitiful pool of mana still needed more time to be replenished.

The Spider Daedra's smile was all teeth as she pushed silver shoulder-length locks behind a pointed ear. "Cheeky." She picked up his dropped sword, balancing its weight across her forward claws. "Someone needs to teach you some manners." Aiming for the junction in his plate armor, she plunged the blade into his right shoulder.

He screamed; writhing in agony as she savagely twisted the blade to deepen the wound.

She retracted the sword and licked a stripe through the crimson that stained its edge, giving him a cruel smirk as she did so. "Delicious."

"Not fair," whined the second Spider Daedra from somewhere near his left hip. "The others were so bitter. I want to try."

"Of course, sister," the senior Spider Daedra said.

This time he was more prepared as she drove the sword's tip into his hip.

She frowned at his restrained cries and worked the blade up and down until she finally drew out the agonized screams she wanted from him.

When she withdrew the blade, the second Spider Daedra rushed toward the wound, nuzzling the injury open further with her sharp fangs and lapping up the blood that dribbled in a constant messy stream down her chin and pooled on the floor below.

"That all?" he panted, surpressing the urge to vomit from the pain.

The elder Spider Daedra purred and grabbed his chin with her humanoid hand, forcing his head up with a rough jerk. "Oh, I like you." She turned to the younger, "What do you say, sister? Should we keep him?"

He felt the pinch of teeth around his hip as the other looked up from her meal. "But the Spinner wants him dead."

The elder's gaze turned back to him, and she gave his cheek a condescending pat. "Too bad then." She raised the sword again, aiming for his neck.

The Spider Daedra was met with a faceful of fire.

"Yol Toor Shul!" The fireball scorched the air, burning away the web holding him and setting the elder sibling alight.

The younger Spider Daedra scurried back shrieking as her sister was engulfed by the enchanted flames.

He fell hard, the injury at his hip screaming in a gut-wrenching agony.

Ignoring how the Dragon Shout had left his throat parched and irritated, Rowan grit his teeth and forced himself to stand on shaky legs. He gathered up his dragonbone sword and, finding his right arm useless, switched the blade to his left. The Dragonborn pointed the sword at the remaining sibling, but it didn't rest there long. The tip wobbled as a haze clouded his mind, blurring his vision. A giggled 'oopsie' met his ears as he recognized the tingling burn of poison in the wound at his side.

"Sister always did say I had a bad habit of ruining the fun too early."

His eyes grew heavy, and his stance unsteady. Rowan's legs crumpled and his sword skittered from his hand. His head cracked against stone and he was out like a light.

* * *

For the first time in his immortal life, Hermaeus Mora prayed. Prayed he wasn't too late to save his mortal as he flew past the corpses of humans and frostbite spiders alike. The wounds were fresh; the Courier hadn't lied at least. It was another matter of whether his champion was still here, and whether the mortal was still alive.

Ahead his Lurkers pushed on, their long limbs battering away any creature that dared to approach their Lord. There weren't many that had survived the earlier battle, but his Lurkers were relentless in their duty.

They followed the wooden structure's curve to the bottom, spying one of Mephala's minions crouched, happily licking blood from her fingers. _His blood_. The distinct smoky smell of dovah blood mixed with a slight copper tang left no doubt.

The _thing_ dared look in his direction, the contented grin slipping from its face. The _thing_ dared bare its fangs at him. The _thing_ dared to lunge at him with claws extended.

Twisting black tendrils encircled the Spider Daedra, jerking her mid-leap to the cavern's floor. More began entwining the thing, sapping all resistance from her eight-limbed lower half. She pulled weakly at the tendrils encircling her throat as her eyes bulged from their sockets. The wretched thing let out a pained screech as a loud snap reverberated along the stone walls, with more creaks and pops following shortly after. The tendrils retracted, revealing the Spider Daedra's mangled and bleeding form.

"Where is he?" Hermaeus Mora demanded of the dying wretch.

"The Spinner was right. You did come for him." The thing choked blood in a gurgled laugh. "Too bad we killed him. We kil-" His tendrils speared the wretch, ending her hideous chanting.

Hermaeus Mora's multiple yellow-green eyes snapped to his surroundings, scanning wrapped cocoons and broken bodies alike. _No. No. No no no. Nonononononono._

His Lurkers stood about confused, unsure of what was causing their master so much distress.

He was master of the mind, especially of his own. He _should_ be calm. But he was everything but calm. His slender fingers tore into cocoons, and he rushed around to turn over the fallen bodies. None belonged to the one he was looking for.

The Prince sunk to his knees, his hands clutching his head, his dark green robe spilling about his slender figure loosely. _Would Mephala's spell only let him see his champion again as a spirit he is to strip of everything?_ His hands fell to his sides. He felt- The Daedric Prince stopped, the sensation unfamiliar and all the more awful. 

 _He. Felt..._   _lost..._

There was a scrape across the floor, a slow but sure sound of metal on stone - one that Mora immediately latched onto in a blind hope.

Shakily, he stood, stumbling towards where he had heard the noise. His eyes scanned the mist, the powdered dust, anything to indicate where his champion could be. Then he saw it. A streak of fresh spilt crimson, and a billowing puff of breath stirring the red fog.

He knelt beside the image in his mind and his hands hovered over its surface, unsure if he could even touch his champion. Tentatively, the Daedric Prince lowered his hand feeling the cool press of ebony armor against his fingertips. A breath he didn't realize he had been holding, released in a torrent of relief as his fingers worked their way up to the mortal's neck and found hints of a pulse working beneath his champion's skin. It was thready to be sure, but at the moment it was there.

_Mephala hadn't won their bet yet._

It annoyed him, but Hermaeus Mora had no way to aid the helpless Nord. He couldn't even see the injuries that marked his champion and slowly drained his precious life away.

With great care, Hermaeus Mora scooped up his mortal and hurried him to the exit. With luck, the other mortals could help where he could not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might be thinking "Rowan, why you no use shouts?", answer is he tends to forget… he's a warrior first and foremost and magic in general doesn't come to him naturally, that and most shouts tend to have a fairly long cooldown so he doesn't use them unless he has to.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We get to find out why Rowan's so adamant about getting to Sovengarde and how he got carted off to Helgen at the beginning of Skyrim.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Olav is the great great great great great grandson of the Olav who owned the original inn in Oblivion.
> 
> You guys can thank SarcasticallyDances for the Mora bits. Without their motivation this chapter was a lot shorter.

His Lurkers had readily skulked back to Apocrypha when he dismissed them - their amphibic nature not taking to the harsher climate of Skyrim. Only he remained, watching the growing pool of blood with a nervous fervor he didn't know how to quell.

Fortunately, the bumbling blacksmith had returned - oblivious to the Daedric Prince standing nearby in cloaked invisibility. The old man drew the attention of an Orc and some Nord woman, both of which helped to move his still irritatingly invisible champion inside.

Hermaeus Mora paced outside of the small single-roomed house. He had seen the others leave, the old man remaining behind to watch over the figure lying in the bed - all of which did little to put him at ease. He worried a thumbnail between his teeth, and though still unsure of the habit's origin, he continued anyway. The Daedric Prince watched with rapt attention, noting how the mattress rose and fell as if its occupant was tormented. Whether it was from the spider venom or a nightmare, Hermaeus Mora thought to at least ease the latter, pulling on the thin strands of a treasured memory.

* * *

"Rowan, how 'bout that one? I'd bet I could convince her to join us for a threesome." His brother wiggled his eyebrows and pointed to a comely lass who had just walked into Olav's Tap and Tack. The door snapped shut behind her, pushed by the crisp Bruma air.

"Leave me out of your fornicating," Rowan grumbled, pulling up a tankard the innkeep just put down between them.

"Oh, don't be like that…" Bowen teasingly bumped his arm. "If I remember you quite enjoyed last time."

"Last time, you got me good and drunk first," Rowan answered, taking a swig of his drink. He paused, looking down at the warm ruby colored liquid, and caught the distinct smell of cloves and ginger. "Hold on-" he said, putting a hand over the mug his brother was about to raise to his lips. "I got your piss water by mistake."

Bowen looked down at his own drink. "I don't think so," he replied, shaking off Rowan's hand and taking a slow sip.

Sighing, Rowan grabbed the tankard from Bowen. It was the same spiced wine. "Did Olav get the drinks wrong?" He leaned back, puzzled.  _No, the innkeep knew them well enough._   _Wait…_  "You ordered this time." Realization dawned on Rowan's face and he glared at his smirking brother. "You bastard."

"My dear brother, you must broaden your drinking horizons."

"There's nothing wrong with mead."

Bowen made a disgusted face. "There are far too many things wrong with that overly sweet swill…"

Rowan opened his mouth to retort but was interrupted by a particularly loud individual.

"What do yeh mean, you hope the Stormcloaks win?" the drunk slurred to the Nord sitting with him. "Us Imperials not good enough for ye', ye' ingrate? Ye' think yer better than all o' us?"

Everyone could feel the tension rising on the tavern floor. Several slunk lower into their drinks while a few stood to leave.

"Where do ye' all," the drunk stopped to hiccup, "think yer goin'?" He traveled a shaky finger over the entire tavern. "I get it. Yer all one of them. Aren't ye'? Well, I'll not be fooled. I'll let 'em know. The Imperials will hang all of ye'." The man wobbled out of the inn with a giddy smile on his face.

An awkward silence fell on the drunk's departure as its patrons slowly settled back down.

Swirling his drink, Bowen took another sip. He wouldn't look at Rowan. "You're still going back, aren't you?" he asked.

Rowan set the tankard on the table, pushing the warmed liquid away with a grimace. "Yeah."

"It's not safe Rowan."

"Then come with me."

Bowen chuckled, but it was a somber sound. "It's even less safe for someone looking like me."

Rowan looked at his brother. His  _twin_  brother, not that someone could tell just by looking. They had their similarities: dark hair, ice-blue eyes, and a handsomely strong nose courtesy of their grandfather, but that was where their similarities ended. Rowan had taken the pale Nordic features of their mother while Bowen had the sharper, olive-skinned features of their Imperial father.

"We'll join the Imperials, find a place in Solitude..."

Bowen shook his head. "No Rowan. I'm staying here."

Rowan was flabbergasted, and his expression said as much. "How can you say that? Skyrim is our home! We grew up in Helgen for gods' sake. Are you just going to let war tear her apart?"

This time anger laced Bowen's voice and he set his half-finished drink down. "And you think picking sides is better?"

"It's better than doing nothing!" Rowan slammed his hands against the wooden surface, drawing a few looks from the individuals seated nearby. More quietly he hissed, "I don't remember you being such a coward."

First leaving a few septims on the table, Rowan left without another word.

****

His brother had been right.  _He shouldn't have come_. Rowan was regretting that now as he was caught in an ambush set for the Stormcloaks, staring as an Imperial soldier was swinging down a steel war-hammer on his head.

He wasn't as experienced as his brother.  _He wished Bowen was here._

"Rowan, you idiot! Move!" He stumbled, shoved out of the way as an armored individual raised his shield against the deadly blow. Steel clanged against steel, and the Imperial swung this time at Bowen. His brother took the blow well, shifting the weight of the strike and lashing out with his own steel straight-sword. Bowen clipped the soldier's shoulder and quickly swung again to claim the Imperial's head. It fell to the ground with a wet thump. "Sovngarde take me, Rowan. I thought you were going to join the Imperials. Not fight them."

"Not my fa-" Rowan started, relief awash on his face.

There was a meaty squelch, and suddenly an arrow was protruding from Bowen's eye socket. His twin dropped his shield, the metal landing heavily in the trampled snow, and collapsed soon after.

Rowan stood there, staring disbelievingly at where his brother had fallen. He continued staring even as his knees were knocked out and he was forced to kneel. "What do we do with him?" shouted one.

"Put him in the cart with the others. Let Helgen figure it out," shouted another.

A swift smack with the back of a pommel, and Rowan saw nothing but black.

****

Slowly, Rowan opened his eyes to a wooden slatted ceiling. Soft snores accompanied the crackle of the nearby fire, and he relaxed at the sense of ease it brought. The pain at his shoulder and hip had returned with a vengeance, but it at least told him he was alive. Alive enough to realize that sometime during his bout of unconsciousness his injuries had been wrapped, though the white linen bandages were stained with blossoms of fresh crimson.

Remembering his dream, he sighed. It had been a while since he last thought about Bowen, and even longer since he thought about his death. Rowan guessed that was part of the near-death experience, albeit not helpful now.

He rolled over, cringing with the pain, and sat up. Filnjar was nearby, propped up in a chair along the far wall. The blacksmith's solid arms were crossed over his rounding stomach and his head lolled forward with the rise and fall of his chest. Glancing around the rest of the room, told Rowan that he was in Filnjar's home - the man himself, having given the Dragonborn the only bed in the place.

With effort, Rowan got to his feet, the floorboards protesting his actions.

There was a quiet snort and Filnjar was suddenly staring at him. "Glad to see you survived. Wasn't sure with the fever on top of... everything else."

Rowan laughed weakly, falling into a chair opposite of the man. "Takes a little more than that to kill me."

"I'd say. Don't know how you managed to crawl out of the mine with those injuries."

"I wasn't pulled out?" Rowan could faintly remember being carried by thin-yet-strong arms and faint features reminiscent of an Altmer hidden beneath a heavy hood.

"Well, no one stuck around if they did. Found you alone by my forge, bleeding something awful." The blacksmith fiddled with a small coin on the table between them. "Got Grogmar to help me move you to the bed, and Sylgja patched you up the best she could. Was planning on giving you one of those healing potions you carry, but we couldn't guess how it would react with the fever. I offered to wait around until it broke." He reached underneath his chair and offered the rosy bottle out to Rowan. "Seeing those injuries open up again, I'm guessing you'll still be needing this."

The Dragonborn accepted the health potion gladly, the constant throb of his wounds having grown exponentially. A few moments later, he had twisted its cork free and downed the syrupy red liquid. The potion worked quickly. Already he could feel his wounds stitching closed and a rib pop back into place. Several more seconds and he was ready to leave.

"Hold on there," said Filnjar as Rowan started for the door. "It ain't much, but here." The blacksmith held out a small coin pouch, jingling it for effect.

Had it been when Rowan first started campaigning across Skyrim, he would have been tempted. At this point, however, he wasn't hurting for the coin. "Save it, you'll need it to hire new workers. How about instead you save me a beer next time I come 'round."

Filnjar gave a hearty laugh, easily pocketing the coins again. "Will do. Might even splurge for the expensive stuff. You interested in Argonian Bloodwine?"

"You had me at expensive." Rowan grinned.

* * *

Despite himself, Mora eagerly watched the door swing open. He watched as the piled plates of ebony armor faded one by one to be encompassed beneath Mephala's enchantment. And for a moment, he dismissed the annoyance of not being able to see anything with the knowledge that his champion had survived something many others would not have.

It was easy enough to follow his mortal's beast, though the creature in question was less fond of his continued presence, its unease slowly affecting his champion. So, he followed further behind, undeterred by exhaustion or need of sustenance. The only nuisance of his journey was the constant cold that seeped into his skin and turned his fingers clammy.

He crept closer at night. The warmth from the glowing flame drawing him in, more so than the close sleeping presence of his mortal - but that had been a nice bonus. Hermaeus Mora spent his idle time flipping through his mortal's thoughts, backing away from unpleasant memories and pulling more fondly remembered things to the surface. Mora continued to observe as an outsider, his fingers thrumming against the rock's surface where he perched himself for the night. There was a sort of childish curiosity about his actions he couldn't explain. His mortal's experiences weren't necessarily unique, but they were like precious jewels to Mora regardless, and he eagerly coaxed more from his champion.

As dawn broke he reluctantly drew himself away. That close he would definitely spook his mortal's beast of burden, not that he cared, but if the thing ran off he would have a hard time escorting his mortal.

* * *

It took another two days before Rowan arrived back at Heljarchen Hall, giving him plenty of time to think about what had transpired in the depths of Redbelly Mine. The spider Daedra had mentioned the Spinner, and even without the hint, it was clear that he had fallen out of Mephala's favor. But  _why, how and when?_  And if Mephala was after him, why target Shor's Stone? The questions would have bothered him more had he not had the feeling he was being watched the entire way. It didn't help that his horse was equally wary, evident by how frequently her ears swiveled back to listen to something neither could see. His only reprieve came at night, his dreams more memories than anything. Memories that made him relaxed and feeling well rested upon waking.

More often than not, he felt his thoughts drifting to how he got to Filnjar's forge, to the phantom sensations of being held, and of the flickers he caught of the stranger. Of how the stranger's thin lips were drawn into a worried line, of how his hood never revealed anything above the stranger's sharp cheekbones, or of how the stranger's skin was a peculiar shade of green - not common among the Altmer Rowan had thought the stranger's bloodline hailed from.

Rowan pulled back on the reins, slowing his horse. The thoughts floating around his head were finally connecting.  _No. It couldn't be. It didn't make sense._  But he couldn't shake the familiarity the stranger had to the form Mora had appeared to him in, nor the timing of the relief from his nightmares. But the biggest question remained: Why? What had the Daedra to gain from his survival?

He slid from his saddle, his armored feet landing heavily in the light snow. Rowan led the black mare to the stables he had built additionally, and she readily slipped into the comfortable stall to be freed from the cold mountain breeze.

With care, he removed her bridle and saddle, replacing the saddle with a thick woolen blanket, and filled the nearby feed bucket with bagged grain he had harvested in the prior year. Running a nervous hand through his hair, he headed back into the Hall, and hopefully for a Daedra free night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bowen was a result of me trying to recreate my Dovahkiin (Rowan) and getting a much more Imperial looking Dovahkiin than the one I was trying to mimic. It became a weird headcanon for me that they were brothers and were stuck in alternate time lines where one survived and the other didn't.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get a little steamy, and Rowan’s not good at staying put.

Rowan opened his eyes, though whether he was dreaming or not, was still up for debate. At the very least, he was feeling better rested than he had in years.

Stretching, Rowan arched his back deeply until a few satisfying pops reached his ears. But, the pleasantness stopped there. The sound of rustling pages drew his attention to his dual-storied library, and he padded towards it carefully.

A Seeker floated through the private shelves, occasionally taking down a book where it had been gathering dust to flip through it. The tentacle aberration would then snap the book closed and put it back in a different location before grabbing another.  _The thing was sorting his books._  

It took a few moments, but Rowan managed to pull his eyes from the absurdity and crept past to the stairwell leading to the main floor.

He had to pause at the bottom of the stairs as large Lurker lay sprawled in front of a roaring blaze in the room's central fireplace. So far, the amphibious looking thing hadn't noticed him; the monster instead curling tighter into a ball and letting out a quiet 'wuff'.

Rowan slipped by unnoticed.

The Dragonborn made it to the front hall and grabbed a one-handed dwarven sword from a display rack. It wasn't the best weapon he had - not by a long shot. There was no way he could guarantee getting to any of his better-crafted armor and weapons without alerting however many of Mora's monsters were actually in his home. So, until he could get to Riverwood where he had stored emergency gear in the tavern's basement, the dwarven weapon would have to suffice.

He pushed open the front door and was greeted, not by the familiar scape of Skyrim, but of the green murky glow of Apocrypha - the nearest semblance of land, miles below.

"Champion." The giant cloud of eyes floated down to the doorway to peer in.

“Mora,” the Dragonborn responded, his grip tightening around the sword, disregarding how powerless it would be against the Daedra. He was annoyed to be sure, but part of him was curious as to how the Daedra got his home into the Oblivion realm.

“I am glad to see you unharmed.”

Rowan couldn’t help being skeptical, despite the unusual sincerity coming from Mora. “That would be a first coming from you.”

“My servants have left you alone.”

The Dragonborn glanced to the snoozing Lurker. It had disappeared. “For now,” he snarkily agreed, turning back to the floating mass of eyes and tentacles. “But I'm more curious about their presence in the first place.”

“They are to watch over you, where I cannot. I thought to acclimate you to their presence.”

“Meaning?”

The Daedra sighed, long and slow. "There are matters beyond you. Matters that cannot operate long without my intervention. I have no time to constantly look after you..."

That managed to catch Rowan off-guard, and his expression reflected such. "Look after me?"

The tentacled eye-ball shifted nervously - if Rowan could call the awkward wriggle that. "I look after all my servants, and you,  _Champion_ , are no exception." Mora's monotonous response was sluggish, even more so than usual. The Daedra's words were barely coherent with how drawn out they were.

Rowan rolled his eyes. "That sure turned out well for Miraak." He couldn't help the notes of sarcasm dripping from his voice. "I would rather ask a mudcrab for help than turn to you."

Mora stilled, and a wash of fear prickled Rowan's skin. Tendrils curled in around the door's frame, and he took a step back. "You are already more indebted to me than you know."

"Not that  _I've_  ever asked for it," the Dragonborn sneered, his bravado bolstered by irritation.

"You will watch your tone, Champion." Again, the tendrils slithered further in, and again Rowan stepped farther back into Heljarchen Hall. Mora's central eye floated closer, giving the illusion of something much larger peeking in.

Rowan swallowed around the lump in his throat; the tendrils having brought back images and sensations of his last misadventure to Apocrypha. It wasn't something the Dragonborn wanted to repeat despite how his lower member betrayed him.

A few steps more and he was in the main hall. Ahead of him, the mass of tendrils had completely consumed the entry. His hips bumped into the grand dining table, halting any further retreat. The encroaching tendrils faced no such hindrance as they felt their way towards him, licking up the walls, floors, and ceiling, covering everything in front of the Dragonborn in a writhing black. The tendrils parted just enough so the Daedra, now wearing the familiar Altmer's skin, could step forward.

The Dragonborn tensed, already searching for a way out. His eyes were scanning the elven-like figure in front of him for any telltale signs when suddenly, the Daedra raised an arm out towards him.

The floorboards creaked and the Dragonborn knew it was time to move. He turned away and leapt onto the table, sending dishes and cutlery scattering as black tendrils ripped through the floor like tissue paper.

It was a mistake to turn his back to the Daedra, _or any enemy really,_ but there had been no time to think. He simply ran.

Rowan could have said he was almost proud of himself for his effort - if judging by the grin that slipped from Mora's face. Clearly, Mora hadn't been prepared for his response.

Still, despite his best efforts, Rowan only made it down three-quarters of the table before a tendril successfully wrapped around his ankle, yanking his leg out from under him. He fell and his sword dropped into the sea of slimy black-green with the impact. The Dragonborn's fingers clawed uselessly against the wooden surface, his tunic riding up as he was hauled back to the Daedra.

He wasn't ready to give up just yet.

When the tendril had begun to slow down, Rowan kicked out and managed to shake off the tendril's grip and rise to his feet.

But, that was all he managed.

Unceremoniously, he was slammed back onto the table as more tendrils coiled tightly around his legs and arms, this time holding him more securely. As an added measure, they first rolled him onto his back before they pulled him back to their waiting master.

"Where do you think you're going?" Mora purred as a tendril hitched up Rowan's tunic even higher than the drag across the table had done. "Punishment is in order for your continued _insolence..."_

Despite not actually seeing any eyes peering at him from beneath the robe's cowl, he could feel the Daedra's penetrating stare sweeping up and down his body. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed nervously, trying desperately to ignore how hot the tendrils sliding along his body were and how that heat seemed to linger and pool into his gut. He could feel his face blush unnaturally and a similar rosy hue touched his exposed breast, likely influenced by whatever enchantment Mora had cast on his tendrils to mess with him.

* * *

Hermaeus Mora felt hot; he couldn't find the words to explain the sensation otherwise. He had thought himself in more command when he first pried into this particular dream, but clearly, he was not. His mortal's humanity seeped into Mora's very being and was corrupting him from the inside out. A fog clouded the Daedric Prince's mind, and he let himself fall to the growing hunger.

His mortal shifted uncomfortably, the Nord's vessel clearly flush with the same heat that fueled Mora's fondling. It was a horrible… _wonderful,_  feedback loop of passion. Mora couldn’t escape, nor did he want to. This is what the Daedric Prince had desired, and he wanted the moment to last forever. He had the time to move slowly and give in to his baser needs, ignoring reason completely.

For now, Hermaeus Mora was going to take advantage.

Slender fingers roamed up the pale flesh and every so often the Prince would lay a chaste kiss upon battle-hardened skin. Mora traced a ragged white scar up his mortal's stomach, and he felt the Nord shiver under the touch. "Yo-you call this... a punish...ment?" His mortal panted, those usually defiant ice-blue eyes dazed and unfocused. _Just… adorable._

"Did you want it to be?" The Prince teased, working a tendril down the front of his champion's slacks. The appendage coiled around the stiff length and his mortal jerked at the touch - the movement limited by the additional tendrils wrapped around his mortal's raised arms.

His mortal flinched and tugged against his bindings, his body eagerly betraying him to Mora's persistent caresses. "I- nrrgh." A tendril prodded at his mortal's puckered entrance, ceasing any response he might have made.

“No witty response?”

The Nord attempted a growl, the guttural sound morphing into a pleasing moan as his mortal’s body arched beautifully beneath him. Hermaeus Mora smiled uncharacteristically, twisting the tendril so it hit that particularly sensitive spot in his mortal again. His mortal’s muscles tensed, and for once, Mora released the hands that reached for him and twisted tightly in the material of his robe.

“Oblivion… take you,” the Nord managed, clinging tight to Mora’s arms as he hauled himself closer to the Prince’s face. The anger had disappeared from his mortal’s tone, instead replaced with one of a begrudging acceptance. With a constant glare, and the darkest shade of vermillion touching his ears and cheeks, the Nord rolled his hips forward into the tendril grasping his hardened length.

Mora chuckled; his mortal was just too precious. He leaned in for a kiss only to be stopped by a hand coming up to cover his mouth.

“I’ll accept you ploughing me, but leave your  _pretend_  feelings out of this. I get enough of that torture from Mephala.”

 _Pretend?_   _Pretend_ feelings wouldn't have driven him this far.  _Pretend_  feelings wouldn't have made the Daedric Prince crave this ungrateful mortal with every fiber of his being. Pretend feelings wouldn't have let  _Hermaeus Mora_  make an unfair gamble with his sibling in some vain hope he wouldn't lose that mortal after death.

"Mephala has her reasons."

“Yeah I bet-” his mortal gasped as Mora drove in deeper. "You... going to... gaaaah... wreck my sleep cycle in her place?"

Mora paused, and his tendrils stilled likewise. The frequent dreams where Mephala had once visited nightly had suddenly gone down to nothing... Mephala wouldn’t change her behavior unless...  _She was planning something._  It was what she was good at.

He cursed himself for his carelessness, for getting so close to his mortal. Mephala had taken advantage and used his mortal to draw him away from her plans.  _How much time had he truly lost? How much had she gained?_

* * *

“Cat got your tongue?” Rowan asked more coherently, noting the lack of movement from the once so active Daedra. He felt the tendrils retreat, disappearing beneath the green-black robe Mora always wore. The Daedra seemed lost in thought as he backed away, vanishing abruptly.

The world shook with the Daedra’s departure, and suddenly, Rowan was no longer dreaming.

****

Rowan’s eyes snapped open, and he realized he was alone in bed - his body tangled in its emerald green blanket. Rowan ripped off the heavy cover and bent over his stiff morning wood.  _At least Mephala let him get off before rudely waking him._ He prayed that Mora was at least as sexually frustrated as he was with the abrupt end to their rendezvous. Probably not though,  _the smug bastard_.

His hand slipped into his pants and firmly wrapped it around his cock. His eyes grit tight as he stroked its length, coaxing the heat to travel lower as he pinched and rolled the sensitive skin between his fingers. It didn’t take long before he was working himself into a steady rhythm, alternating between soft and borderline painful touches, and somewhere along the line he had yanked his slacks to his knees to allow for easier access. His swollen cock slowly wept onto the mattress below him, and he knew he was close. Rowan’s toes curled and he worked himself faster, chasing that orgasmic high. A cry ripped from his throat and he came. His body spasmed as sensations of relief flooded his senses, but there was another sound that quickly quenched those feelings: the inharmonious mixture of rustling pans and the clatter of a bucket being knocked over.

Still panting faintly from his recent exertions, he tucked himself away and pulled from the bed, deciding to leave the sticky mess he made on the mattress to deal with later. Rowan grabbed the elven-made sword mounted on a wall nearby and moved to peer over the banister into the main hall.

The source of the noises was one of Mora’s Lurkers, riffling through his things piled haphazardly where they had fit. A frown slipped to Rowan’s face. The Daedra had mentioned acclimatizing him to Mora’s beasts, but he had thought it merely a relic of his dream. Now, he realized, it meant more than that. Another Lurker scuttled past the doorframe of his greenhouse, and he immediately ruled out trying to sneak past to gather his armor still stored in the entranceway.

He walked back through his bedroom and tried the door to the northern patio. Immediately, dark tendrils coiled around the iron rings and he withdrew his hand. The Dragonborn watched in curious rapture, as the tendrils hardened into an oily metal, essentially sealing the door shut.  _So, had Mora wanted him to stay put? Good luck with that._

Rowan ran to his upper library, first grabbing a pair of leather boots set aside and putting them on. The Seeker from his dream was fortunately nowhere in sight. He slid back a slim bookcase to reveal a ladder and quickly clambered up its rungs. Luckily, the hatch wasn’t enchanted as the other door had been – likely due to it leading to essentially nowhere to those with less imagination.

The cold air of morning pierced through the light material of his nightwear, and he was glad to have thought of storing a set of heavier clothing in the low dresser. He changed quickly, not caring that anyone who came by could have caught him in his skivvies. When he was done, he leapt to the nearby roof.

The Dragonborn landed roughly, and the combination of thatch and wood protested under his sudden weight. But it held. Slowly, he made his way towards the second-level patio and dropped to its planked surface. From there, he made his way to the stables.

His mare was still groggy as he approached, having just woken, but she accepted the bit and let him saddle her without much complaint.

It was a long journey to the Solitude, but he had to get to Solstheim. Neloth was the only one he could trust to ask what was going on with the Daedric Princes, and failing that, the Telvanni wizard-lord could at least help with his predicament – if the Dunmer could stop laughing first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think Rowan secretly likes pissing off Mora. And I think Rowan's actions are a bit of a turn on for Mora, seeing as the Daedric Prince hasn't killed him yet. There's no other explanation for it.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rowan finally gets clued into a few things. And now he has an even bigger reason to hate sailing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Squeals* Look at all the amazing comments. You guys really make my stressful life that much better. :D

It took a while before Neloth could catch his breath; his laughter heard well outside of the massive fungal tower.

With an unimpressed scowl on his face, Rowan leaned up against a wooden banister, waiting for the Dunmer to finish. “So can you help me or not?” the Dragonborn asked, crossing his arms over his chest indignantly.

Neloth dabbed at the corners of his eyes with a silk handkerchief he had procured from a pocket in his ornate robe's inner lining. A certain mirth still painted the Dunmer's ashen features, but the Telvanni‘s usual stern expression had returned. "I can, but as to what extent I'm not sure." Neloth tucked the handkerchief away. "Your situation isn't entirely unique. After all, at its core, you are simply another mortal shared between two Daedric Princes… though this rivalry between them is somewhat different. Have you made some additional bargain with either?"

"Yes... maybe...?" Rowan shrugged weakly. "Wait- Rivalry? This is all over some petty Daedra rivalry?" He unfolded his arms.

The Telvanni raised a pronounced brow. "I'd thought that would be obvious enough. After all, you are wearing Mephala's brand quite openly across your face. If you indeed have fallen into the service of both Mephala and Hermaeus Mora, I can imagine Hermaeus Mora is less than thrilled at the sign of favoritism."

Bristling, Rowan was quick to say, "I serve no one."

The Telvanni moved past him, Neloth's attention more focused on a bookcase containing several aged tomes. "Your opinion matters little. Both Princes call you their champion, and that alone is enough."

"But if I'm showing favoritism to Mephala, why is she trying to kill me?"

Neloth pulled a thick book - its black spine cracked and worn from frequent use. "What was the terms of the new deal you made with her?"

Rowan remained silent; it wasn't exactly a moment he wanted to recall.

"It may hold the answer you are seeking," the Dunmer encouraged, his red eyes returning to the pages open before him.

Reluctantly, the Dragonborn dredged up the memory and started speaking with a sigh. “She’d promise to help me escape Apocrypha if I refuse the ‘advances from other Daedra’, that’s when I received the…  _mark_.” Rowan refused to acknowledge that he had been branded, that he was no better than cattle.

“That explains the secondary spell,” Neloth hadn’t bothered to look up.

“What secondary spell?”

“Really…” It was Neloth’s turn to sigh. “You continue to amaze me with your ignorance.” The Dunmer flipped a page, still not finding what he was looking for. He put the tome back and grabbed another - this time one with an auburn spine and gold edging. “A concealment spell. Surprisingly benign for Mephala’s work, but it makes sense if she wants to make you hers exclusively.”

“But concealment from what?”

“Hermaeus Mora.”

“Just Mora?”

Neloth paused at Rowan's nickname for the Daedra before answering. “Indeed. He wouldn’t have need to make advances. You are already his champion. But something is still missing. Are you sure that was all?”

“No. There…” Rowan grimaced. “Should I ever tire of what Sovngarde has to offer, I… I become hers for all eternity.” Finally speaking the words out loud left a bad taste in his mouth, and he turned his head to look at a particular spot on the floor.

A silence fell between the two men; the only thing breaking it was the short shuffling of paper as Neloth leafed through the book in his hands. “What is the likelihood of you tiring of Sovngarde?”

“Not very,” Rowan said with strong conviction.

“Hmmm," was all Neloth said to that. "What interests me is you said Hermaeus Mora ‘saved’ you…”

“If you could call it that,” snarked the Dragonborn.

The Telvanni was not impressed he had been interrupted, and his expression said as much. “The fact that the Daedric Prince interfered at all says something. You shouldn’t dismiss it so easily.”

“So, what do I do?”

“Truthfully? Nothing. Whatever is happening is between Mephala and Hermaeus Mora. You just happen to be caught in the middle.”

 _That_ was not what Rowan wanted to hear. “There has to be something...”

“Hermaeus Mora is interested in keeping you alive; it would be in your best interest to aid him in that endeavor. If you let me, I can dispel the concealment magic. Mephala will at least lose that advantage.”

As much as being hidden from Mora seemed like a good idea, not dying was an even better one. “Sounds…  _swell_. Anything you need from me?”

“No, this shouldn’t take long anyway,” the Telvanni snapped the book closed and waved his hand across the Dragonborn’s face. There was a tingle, then a slight shimmer that shattered around him. “Done, and unless there is anything else you wish to waste my time with…”

****

Personally, he had nothing against the inhabitants of Solstein, but the fact that Mora’s presence was so pervasive did little to set him at ease. As such, Rowan couldn’t have been happier to see Raven Rock come into sight. He walked up the gangplank of the first ship he spotted and started a chat with the captain.

Two-hundred gold septims later, Rowan had managed to negotiate passage back to Skyrim, and he was glad to be able to spend the rest of the trip below deck where the rocking was mild.

Closing his eyes, Rowan tried to ignore how the ship lurched beneath him, and how his stomach lurched with it. The captain had warned him that they were in for some rough weather, but somehow he still wasn't prepared for how bad it actually was. A knock came at his cabin door, and he answered it, albeit only wanting to sleep through the worst of the storm.

"Cap'en wants to see yeh," said the reptilian-like man on the other side, looking right at home with the sway of the ship. Rowan firmly held the doorframe for support, the action not going unnoticed by the Argonian. "Don' worry, by the time we git to Skyrim, you'll have yer sea legs."

"Can't wait," Rowen muttered dryly, following the crewman above deck.

The sky above still overcast, but no longer raining as he was greeted by a sudden confrontation with the rest of the crew.

"This him?" The voice came from the captain as he addressed a slender hooded figure beside him.

The figure stepped closer to the captain, a pale arm wrapping tenderly around the man's scarred forearm as the other pulled back the hood to reveal a familiar face.  _Mephala's_. How she got onto the ship was beyond him. He was positive she wasn’t among the others that set sail with them. After getting a good look at the Dragonborn's stunned face, she turned her head into the captain's shoulder and deceptively whimpered, "yes," as she hid a grin from everyone else's sight.

"You heard her lads. Get him off my ship, I don't care how." The captain turned back to his own quarters, Mephala hanging off his arm and doing a damn good job of continuing the damsel in distress act.

The Dragonborn grit his teeth as the remaining men closed in on him, their jovial expressions twisted into ones of malicious glee. It wouldn't matter to them if he was innocent. A few had been looking forward to this from the time he first set foot on the ship.

He regretted leaving his sword in his cabin. It would have been useful now. Fortunately, his opponents had a few weapons that he could take his pick from. "Tiid Klo Ul." The Thu'um ripped from his throat, slowing time down long enough for him to close the distance between the Argonian and take the lizard-man's steel sword from its sheath. It would have been easy enough to run the Argonian through, but doing so wouldn't help his current predicament. Instead, he settled with knocking the crewman out with the sword's pommel.

The Argonian fell with a heavy thump, his horns carving shallow grooves into the deck. The rest of the crew shifted nervously, but none backed down. The Dragonborn had to give them credit; he'd seen bandits shit themselves for less.

The Breton was first, managing successfully to draw his blade against the Dragonborn. Rowan was surprised they were prepared to fight him one on one - not that he was complaining. He was just used to his opponents throwing everything they had at him at once, hoping that sheer numbers would overwhelm him. They were going to drag this out as some game - one which his loss would mean he gets tossed overboard.

Steel rang on steel, echoing into the air and followed by a distant clap of thunder. Rain was not far behind. “I suppose we can’t talk this out?” The Dragonborn hollered over the starting patter.

There was a humorless chuckle that went up among the crew. “Sorry mate, we honestly don’t care what you did with the lass. We’re just following Captain’s orders.”

Rowan rolled his shoulders. It was worth a shot anyway.

There weren’t many Dragon Shouts that would be useful on a ship without sending everyone to the drink, but fortunately ‘Disarm’ didn’t fall into that category. “Zun Haal Viik.”

The Breton was shocked as his sword was ripped from his hands, clattering harmlessly over the side of the ship and landing into the water with an almost unheard splish. He shook his head, raising his arms in surrender, and stepped back into the surrounding crowd.

This time a fellow Nord was willing to challenge the Dragonborn. The man was taller, broader than Rowan, and from the multitude of scars that littered the other Nord’s naked torso, much more experienced than the Breton had been. ‘Disarm’ wasn’t going to work on this one.

The man drew twin glass daggers and fell upon Rowan. The Dragonborn twisted out of the way of the first strike and blocked the second aimed for his side.

The man was a tempest, stabbing and slashing every opportunity he had. Rowan fended off the first few strikes, gaining only the occasional nick. The slick rain made footing difficult and combined with the irregular pitching of the ship, Rowan was surprised he was still standing.

The duel was well matched, both Nords were panting heavily as rain slicked their hair to their faces. But, someone had gotten impatient of the standstill, and Rowan was ill prepared for the beast-man that came charging at him. The large shoulder of the furred brute crashed into his chest and knocked him over the ship's guardrails - his blade lost to the ocean in the process. The Dragonborn panicked, his arms lashing out to grab anything and everything to stop himself from ending up in the dark churning waters below. He managed to wrap his hands around the Khajiit's leg, but with an evil smirk, the cat-man shook free from the Dragonborn's grip.

"Have a nice swim," came the Khajiit’s voice.

It was quickly followed by a growled, “Why did you have to go and do that?” from the other Nord.

Rowan plunged into the churning water. Instinct took over, and he pawed for the surface, caring little for the buffeting forces of the ship moving further and further away.

He needed air.

Rowan struggled to find the surface, emerging once before he was sucked back under by a massive wave. He clawed desperately for the surface. For the sweet breath of air that rested beyond, but the merciless water would only let him up for an instant at a time. His lungs burned, and the salty water stung his eyes fiercely. The Dragonborn couldn't even find the opportunity to use the 'Clear Skies' shout that would help in calming the raging storm. 

The last of his air bubbled its way out of his mouth, as compulsion forced him to swallow down the surrounding water in exchange. 

_Was this how he was going to die?_

His limbs felt like lead, no longer working how he wanted them to. He was sinking, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

Through half-closed eyes Rowan watched the meager light from above grow further and further from his grasp. He could barely register the green glow below him, his starved brain thinking the light and slight tug of current no more than a hallucination.

The portal sucked him through, depositing him roughly onto dry land. The impact forced the first lungful of water from his body, and shortly after, natural reaction had him on his side retching the rest of the brine from his lungs.

Wheezing heavily, he couldn't care less about the oily black metal below his fingers, nor of the dry rustle of ancient papers. For once, Apocrypha came as a relief and he felt his eyelids grow heavy under the muddy green of the Oblivion realm’s sky.

****

Rowan woke to gentle fingers carding through his damp hair, his head raised on a soft surface.  _It... it felt nice_ , he decided as he relaxed into the soft cradled touches that explored his face and stroked along the short stubble of his beard. He leaned into the touches and his companion froze. It took a few more seconds for recent events to finally catch up to his just woken self before he dared to crack open an eye.

His head slammed against the ground, and he groaned in response.

His companion had fled in a whirlwind of parchment and yellowed paper, but it wasn't hard to guess who it had been - just that such affections were somewhat unheard of from a Daedra.

He sat up. The air made his lungs itch and his chest heavy. It was a new experience, but not completely unexpected. After all, this was the first time the Dragonborn was in Apocrypha in the flesh. Maybe, he had been deluded into thinking that an Oblivion plane could actually be hospitable. He coughed but it did little to alleviate his discomfort.

Rising on shaky legs, Rowan looked around.  _How was he-_ His question was answered for him. A portal, similar to the one he arrived in, hovered nearby. Its swirling vortex of greens and yellows was hardly inviting, but he had no other obvious choice.

****

Slightly suffering from vertigo, the Dragonborn arrived in the entranceway of Heljarchen Hall. The portal snapped closed on his exit, and the oily bars crisscrossing over the doorway made it clear he had been sealed inside. At least this time, there was no sign of Mora’s creatures.

Rowan traveled slowly into the main hall, discovering a small feast laid out on the large central table. He was hungry to be sure - he hadn't eaten since the day before - but that didn't mean he was alright with being fed like some pet.

A tall bottle of wine sat at table's foot - a ring wrapped around its neck. He didn’t exactly call himself a connoisseur but he knew his way around the local wines well enough, and for the life of him, he couldn’t recognize the bottle’s vintage. He pulled its cork, half expecting a puff of smoke or something equally nasty that would give him an excuse to bypass the  _gift_ entirely.

But, no such luck.

There was a pleasant aroma of ash and applewood, and when he dared a sip, he further discovered the traces of snowberries. 

_An interesting mix to be sure._

Rowan slipped the ring from the bottle’s neck and recognized a faint magical aura surrounding the single sapphire set into the silver surface. That was worth inspecting further.

Pouring over his enchantment table revealed the ring's waterbreathing enchantment, and Rowan found it rather apt as he took another swig from the bottle of wine that had accompanied the piece of jewelry. He fiddled with the thing before slipping it on, finding that it fit suspiciously well on his ring finger. Rowan wasn't going to think long about its implications as he chose instead to slip it into a pocket.

 _Mora better show up soon_. He sat himself down on a nearby chair and continued drinking down the fire and applewood smelling ruby liquid.  _The Daedra had some explaining to do_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rowan might have some regrets later about finishing the entire bottle in one sitting.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rowan gets wasted beyond belief. Mora discovers courting... or at least tries. Shenanigans ensue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is a fair bit longer than normal. Debating on breaking this chapter in half, but that seems like too much effort at this point.
> 
> Slight edits to make Mora less 'cuddly' all of a sudden. I added a little something extra because  
> SarcasticallyDances asked so nicely.  
>   
> Lookie lookie. Female Mora got some fanart [here](http://sanguineshrine.tumblr.com/post/166144111828/female-mora-from-omnigamer-fics). Skitamine you're so awesome!!!

The sun was nearly set, and the thin slat windows were barely casting a glow anymore. Nightfall was well on its way and Rowan hadn't bothered lighting any candles.

Instead, he chose to sulk in the long shadows.

Rowan grumbled incoherently to himself, finding the bottle empty when he brought it back to his lips. The Dragonborn set the empty bottle down with a dull thunk against the hardwood.

_There was still no Daedra in sight._

Mora may not have slunk out of the woodwork, but a Lurker and Seeker did. The Lurker, which he jokingly named Cloister, looked despairingly at the cold fireplace, while the Seeker, similarly nicknamed Abby, was downright furious at the disarray Rowan had made of the library in his stupor. It might not have been the smartest thing to purposely aggravate the Seeker, but with the generous amount of liquid courage flowing through his veins, it was hard to care.

There was a pronounced wobble in his step as he made his way to the fireplace, and Rowan marveled at the stonework that soared to the roof.

If he bothered to light a fire, the stones would be radiating warmth. As it were, they drew in cold air that blew across the top of the chimney, slowly distributing the discomfort throughout his home...  _now made makeshift prison?_  Rowan rubbed at his eyes, feeling a light blush across his cheeks. Thinking was getting exponentially harder.  _He couldn't have drunk that much already?_

The Lurker crouched beside him and gave his sleeve a hesitant tug as a large webbed hand pointed at the dead fire pit. The action was so unexpected, Rowan just stared at where the semi-aquatic monstrosity held the corner of his sleeve, then up at the face of the creature, and down again.

Another tug.

Somehow, despite the large soulless fish eyes and the gaping maw of razor fangs, Cloister was downright adorable. "I get it, I get it," Rowan slurred, jerking his sleeve away from the thing so he could toss a few dry logs into the black ash.

Cloister leaned in, watching Rowan’s every action with wide unblinking eyes. It was a little unnerving, but it didn't distract him long from using his flames spell to light the wood.

Man and...  _beast_ watched with rapt attention as the fire greedily ate up the smaller kindling before working on the larger pieces, and when the fire had burned down to a healthy bed of coals, Cloister stared expectantly at Rowan.

No longer apprehensive about the Lurker's proximity, Rowan tossed on another few logs, the little flames eagerly seeking out the new fuel.

The Lurker nodded appreciatively, then rose on its gangly legs to shuffle somewhere else. It returned with a full wine bottle in its grasp, and it offered the beverage towards him in a jerky manner.

He accepted the reward, noticing it was of the same vintage he had finished earlier.

Perhaps at that point, Rowan should have stopped to think about how tipsy he was after the first as he popped open the green glass bottle, but he wasn't exactly at thinking capacity anymore...  _and besides who was he to deny Cloister's thoughtful gift?_

"Cheers," the Dragonborn sloshed, taking a deep swallow.

****

Two and a half bottles - and one blackout - later Rowan was lying naked under the Hall's dining table. He didn't remember how he got there, nor when or where his clothes had disappeared. His head throbbed horribly, and moving was the farthest thing from his mind. He was glad for the darkness that crept into the corners of the Hall, held back only by the constant ebb of heat from the fire that had been maintained in his consciousness's absence.

Cloister stooped worriedly under the table and gave a strange garbled hiss. Abby hovered nearby, closely resembling a weary nanny rather than the ancient tentacle aberration it was. Both had no idea of what to do with the hungover Dragonborn, except maybe push a bucket closer to the vicinity of his head, which he groped for eagerly as the contents of his stomach threatened to make themselves known.

* * *

Mora stared disbelievingly through the scrying pool at the drunken mess of his mortal. The Daedra Firewine had  _certainly_ not been his gift, and had he known of it earlier, he would have made sure to dispose of it before the Nord found it. Alcohol slowed the mind, gave rein to spontaneity. It was an antithesis to what the Daedric Prince stood for.

Mora was absolutely livid.

"Sanguine!" he roared, tearing through the space between their separate realms and yanking the unsuspecting Prince of Debauchery away from whatever mindless activity he had been partaking in.

"Oh, hey.  _That_ is a good look for you. Very scholarly."

In his blind rage, Mora had forgotten he was still in his lesser form. He mentally cursed himself for his carelessness and directed the additional frustration onto Sanguine.

"What have you done to my champion?" seethed Mora, tendrils winding tightly around the focus of his fury.

"Nothing much. Just thought I'd liven things up a bit for him. You have the poor man trapped all alone after all." Sanguine shrugged, regardless of his bonds.

"It is for his protection."

"Sure it is. Just like that ring is purely so you don't have to fish him out of some body of water again."

"Would that be so strange?"

"It is if it's for his ring finger."

"But, is that not why it is called the ring finger? I thought it common practice for humans to exchange such things as a display of ownership." Mora reluctantly released his grip, his tendrils coiling loosely around his feet.

Sanguine combed a hand through his black hair. "With you, I can't actually tell if you're joking."

Mora let out a sound somewhat resembling a huff, dismissing Sanguine’s snide comment. "How did you slip him Daedra Firewine? I thought to have sealed all the holes."

"Your wards are for anyone seeking to do the Nord harm. Providing the opportunity for a fun time hardly constitutes as hurtful."

"He is ill," stated Mora accusatorily, as he watched his mortal dry-heave into the bucket again.

"A little hungover perhaps, but hardly ill," replied Sanguine smoothly, an irritating grin set on the Prince's lips.

The Prince of Knowledge glowered but found truth in Sanguine's words. His mortal would live, albeit with a pounding head and upset stomach until his body cleared the toxins. "You tread a thin line," Mora warned. "If this happens again, I will be less willing to overlook it."

"Oh, certainly." The other Daedric Prince offered a mock curtsy, but there was a dangerous lit to his voice. "Just as soon as you hold up your end of our little deal."

"I have not forgotten, but the process is an arduous one. Just recently have I been able to lessen the brand's effects as you have already exploited."

"I have no idea what you talking about," feigned Sanguine.

"The wine," motioned Mora before he tucked his pale hands into the wide draping sleeves of his black-green robes. "The mortal wouldn't have been able to touch it without feeling a strong discomfort. If he was able to touch it at all. The second and...  _third_  bottle only appeared after he had finished the first, undoubtedly as you discovered he could partake in your...  _entertainment_." He said the last with a certain level of distaste.

Sanguine raised his hands in fake surrender. "You caught me. Have to say I was mildly impressed he even finished the first. What I wouldn't give to have a true drinking game with that champion of yours." The Prince of Debauchery sounded wistful, which only further annoyed Mora.

"Not until I have concluded my dealings with Mephala. Your games involve much more than simple drinking. I will not have you recklessly endangering him."

"Fine, fine." Sanguine turned to stroll back through a portal that opened with a snap of his fingers. "Just do you and me a favor and read some damn romance novels. You know, educate yourself a bit on proper courtship. You're downright embarrassing."

"Those novellas are pure fiction... fantasy even." Mora bristled, his pride wounded at Sanguine's accusation.

"Hardly means you won't learn something," the other Prince pointed out with a wagging finger. The portal snapped closed on his departure before Mora could retort.

* * *

Rowan hadn't moved from his spot under the table. His insides were still somewhat convinced they needed to be on the outside, and he cuddled the quarter-filled bucket for empty comfort. He groaned pitifully as Abby laid down a new set of clothing - a green tunic, and tan leather slacks. His previous clothes had mysteriously vanished without a trace.

If he had been in a better state of mind, the Dragonborn would have likely guessed he had burned them. Instead, he had convinced himself they had melted through the floor - the overly maintained fire continuing to make everything unbearably warm. 

It took about another hour before he had gathered enough of his wits to move away from the heat, and don the clothes laid out for him. His headache had lessened to a dull constant thumping at the back of his skull, and his insides were once again comfortable to stay there. If anything, he was now ravenously hungry.

A fresh assortment of food ranging from apple dumplings to roasted pheasant had been prepared and laid out on the long dining table. Though, the only thing he could justify grabbing to his pride was the large pitcher of water he took with him to the storage room in the northern wing.

He set the clay jug down on a stack of boxes as he similarly perched atop a crate. Riffling through a nearby sack, Rowan secured a green apple and a wedge of hard goat cheese, which he promptly began eating. The meager meal wasn't anywhere close to the feast that had been laid out.  _But at least it was his own food,_  he argued against the mild rumble his stomach gave when he caught a whiff of baked potato and of beef stew. He had never seen the need for a large store of food before now, and he was beginning to regret it. At most, he had enough to keep himself fed for a week with rationing considered.

Rowan ran a tired hand over his face. Perhaps, that was part of the Daedra's game, to see how long it would take for him to give in; to become completely dependent on Mora. If it was, the Dragonborn was sure as Oblivion would rather be dead than submit. But, that was something for his future self to work on. For now, he was going to have a nice reunion with his bed, as, despite the recent bouts of unconsciousness, he hadn't felt like he had caught even a wink of sleep in the hours prior.

****

The next morning, found the Dragonborn in the cellar at his forge, pounding on a heated chunk of dragonbone. The material wasn't the easiest to work with, but if he wanted to escape he needed something that could hack through Mora's seal. He didn't have any Daedra hearts lying around to forge Daedric ebony, and he doubted that ebony alone would be strong enough to do anything to the oily metal trapping him in his own home. 

 _I_ _t was dragonbone or nothing._  His earlier reconnaissance of his home proved Mora had been more thorough in making sure Rowan didn't slip his 'collar' this time.

He paused to wipe his brow, grumbling how he wouldn't even have to be doing this if he had been coherent enough the other day to just climb out through the chimney. _But alas,_  his drunk-self taught a Lurker how to keep a fire going, so his chances of doing so now were nil.

The damnable thing kept the flames burning at a constant rate, and Rowan couldn't help wondering where all the wood was coming from. As far as he could tell none of his furniture was missing or broken.

Then again,  _how in Oblivion_  did fresh, wondrous smelling food keep appearing every few hours? "Daedric magic that's what," he muttered angrily as he began hammering at the dragonbone again.

****

Noon approached, and the Dragonborn had only just gotten the rough shape of a pickaxe blade. He was sweaty and tired, and if he continued working in the cramped space, he would likely pass out from heat exhaustion.

Rowan set his hammer down and stared frustratedly at his work; he hoped to be further along than he was, but there was no helping it. Dragonbone was just that difficult to work with, and it was the main reason he never made himself more than a sword out of the material before now.

He pulled a skewer from the hot coals, the skeever meat hanging off of it just starting to turn black around the edges. The meat was tough and rubbery, holding no real flavor, but at least it meant he could artificially extend his food store on the vermin that invaded his cellar.

Tossing the metal skewer into a corner, he climbed the wooden stairs leading back to the main floor and unfastened the deadbolt separating him from Mora's abominations above.

Displeased he had spent time unsupervised, Abby was there to greet him with a series of angry clicks as he dropped the trapdoor back into place. Rolling his eyes, he walked away, Abby floating after him emitting a continuous chatter in a language he didn't understand.

He filled a bowl with cool water and wiped down his face and the back of his neck, occasionally dabbing lightly at the mark on his face that had faded from red to a more purplish hue. It didn't hurt, but it was just another change he wasn't prepared for.

Taking a few sips straight from the pitcher, he relaxed for a bit longer, then returned to the trap door.

Abby tried to intercept him this time, but he proved more agile, slipping past the creature before it could stop him, or even follow him down - as it were more likely to try.

****

The day after, there was an amulet set on his dining table - something even gaudier than the ring before it. The gold metal was laden with sapphires – one large one surrounded by a trio of smaller stones set in a circle. Inspecting the jewelry revealed a smithing enchantment.

He was being  _mocked._   _Underestimated._

In a fit, Rowan smacked the amulet from the golden pedestal it had been laid upon, and retreated once more to the cellar, ignoring the light tinkle that chased him as the jewels broke free from their sockets.

****

By the third day, Rowan awoke in a bed of wildflowers. He panicked at the unexpected invasion, and scrambled quickly from his bed, scattering the bouquet of yellows, blues, reds, and purples as he fell off the edge.

A bloom had caught in his hair, and he threw the thing away as if handling a serpent. He just didn't know how to react. This was far beyond his wildest expectations. He rose to his feet shakily, brushing the remaining colors from his front, and pulled on a random tunic from his wardrobe to cover himself.

His home reeked of floral scents. Every surface, every empty space, every nook and cranny had been filled with blossoms – many of which he didn't even recognize.

The Seeker muttered something angrily at him as per usual, but the wreath of soft petals adorning its head lessened the impact. Cloister greeted him ‘good morning’ with a chirp, quickly returning to the pile of blossoms it had been devouring.

Rowan must be going insane. That was the only explanation. _The faster he got out of here the better._

He returned to his forge, hopefully for the last time.

****

The rest of the day he worked in a flurry, ignoring his body's need for breaks or the usual pounding and scratching of Mora's beasts trying to break down the trapdoor.

Eventually, the pounding ceased - both at his forge and of Mora's creatures. The Dragonborn hefted the trapdoor's lid half expecting the usual struggle.

There was none.

In fact, everything was eerily quiet, disturbed only by the occasional crackle from the fireplace.

"Cloister...?"  _Nothing._  "Abby?"  _Same thing._  The Dragonborn should have felt relief, but instead, he felt a paranoid loneliness.

He stepped cautiously forward, hand tight around his dragonbone pickaxe. There was no sight of either of them, nor of the flowers that had once so rampantly plagued his home.

Rowan made it to the main door, the metal network as prevalent as always.

Lifting the substantial pickaxe to his shoulder he took his first swing. It struck hard, the vibrations traveling up his arms in a mini torrent, rewarding his efforts with a chip, a mar in the otherwise smooth surface. It brought a sense of hope, and he reached out to touch the mark against his captor. However, his hope was short-lived.

Small spiraling filaments reached for each other, and Rowan jerked his hand back from the tangling mass. Within seconds, the injury was sealed, like nothing had transpired.

_His efforts for naught._

Staring fixedly at the new surface, rage and irritation twisted onto his features. The Dragonborn raised the pickaxe and brought it down.

Again. And Again. And Again.

His chest heaved, and his shirt clung tight to his sweat-soaked skin. He watched transfixed, as the severed tendril healed itself again.

An animalistic desperation took hold of him, and the Dragonborn continued - despite his muscles screaming at him to stop. But, every action proved to be nothing but a useless endeavor.

The pickaxe tumbled from his numb fingers, and the Dragonborn sank to his knees. He lifted a fist and pounded weakly on his trappings, resting his forehead against the still _very_ locked door.

 _Damnit._  Rowan had hoped it would work. He had nothing else he could work with, no enchantment or magic that could help him. Defeated, he fell onto his back and stared up at the wooden rafters. His eyes trailed across the thick beams, and down the cream-colored plaster only to rest on a box still lodged in the wall. It took a few seconds to realize what it was.

_A lockbox._

Somehow, despite the reorganization of his front hall since his outburst weeks ago, the lockbox remained where he had thrown it. The Dragonborn sat up and ran curious fingers over the small iron container. Spindly threads ran along the box’s outer edges holding it firmly in place, and despite using all his remaining strength, the lockbox didn’t budge.

But he wasn’t to be dissuaded.

The Dragonborn reclaimed his fallen pickaxe, feeling its comforting weight once more in his hands. His raised the dragonbone above his head, then brought it down in one sweeping arc. There was a satisfying crack as the iron fell away to reveal a small hole to the world outside.

Fading sunlight graced his eyes, and for the first time in a while, he felt the cool northern breeze. He waited with bated breath to see if anything would happen, and when nothing did, he swung again.

This time, the pickaxe didn’t land.

A hand, as slender as it was strong, wrapped painfully tight around his arm. Another had grabbed the pickaxe’s blade, halting its momentum. “It is that hard for you to stay put?” a voice said with the hint of a threat in its words as the grip around his wrist tightened.

The Dragonborn felt his bones grind together, and his hold on the pickaxe weakened in response. The grip tightened further, and Rowan was forced to release his hold completely. The pickaxe fell, landing tip first and leaving a deep gouge in the wooden floor.

“Like some pet?” Rowan hissed, his wrist still held above his head as the Daedra pressed bodily closer.

“Is that what you think this is?”

“Isn’t it?” Rowan tried tugging away from Mora’s hold, but he failed miserably. “Tell me that this isn’t because I’m  _Dragonborn_.”

Mora remained silent, though his grip loosened enough Rowan could pull away to face the Daedra.

“I thought so,” snarled Rowan, rubbing his wrist - there would be bruises later. “At least Mephala understands something about personal freedoms.”

For an instant, Rowan caught sight of the Daedra’s hidden eyes, a glint of something unreadable within them. Mora looked conflicted, his mouth unsure of what expression to make. “Do not compare me to her.”

“In my opinion, you’re no better than she is,” he spat, his anger fueled by hunger, frustration, and exhaustion.

The air between them shifted to something sinister. “Do you even know what is at stake?”

Before Rowan could react, a tendril had wrapped around his throat, hardening quickly into a heavy metal collar. His hands moved for his neck, but a moment later he was yanked to the ground by a length of equally black chain. He landed roughly on all fours, the chain holding him in a form of prostration before Mora. He stared fixedly at the floor, a mixture of humiliation and resentment twisting his expression.

Kneeling down to turn Rowan’s face up to him, the Daedra continued. “Of what Mephala plans to do with you?” The hesitation had vanished from Mora’s face, replaced instead with suppressed fury as he let go of Rowan’s chin.

The chain twisted backward, pulling Rowan to his feet and further. The Dragonborn tumbled back, landing on a soft surface. Somehow, he had landed back on his own bed, though his stomach lurched with a sudden queasiness indicative of teleportation.

“Perhaps I have been too lenient,” came Mora’s voice as the Daedra appeared beside him in a swirl of green light, “allowed you too much autonomy.”

Slender tendrils erupted from the shadows between the floorboards, twisting together until they grew to more substantial sizes. Several snaked around Rowan's limbs to hold him in place while the collar held his throat tight against the bed's headboard. His body tensed at the abruptness, and several bones creaked under the abuse. Any more pressure and something would break.

A free tendril poised itself in front of the Dragonborn’s forehead, its tip dangerously sharp. “Then why don’t you fix that,” Rowan tempted, his eyes flicking to the Daedra’s as the tendril pushed closer, drawing a bead of red. He closed his eyes, ready for whatever Mora was going to do to him.

But nothing happened.

The tendril’s stance wavered, eventually to fall away completely. His blue eyes shifted to Mora, and the Daedra was staring back at him with an expression that the Dragonborn wasn’t prepared to see – one of uncertainty.

Rowan sat up, or at least as much as he could, as the chain and tendrils grew slack. “Why?”

Mora’s eyes flicked to the ground, the shadows of his hood darker than usual. “You are so… frustrating.”

“I’m frustrating?!” Rowan blurted out.

“Indeed. You… fascinate me, and yet…” Mora didn’t carry on, but his scowling at the wooden floor intensified.

Rowan’s brows knit together. Suddenly, the last few days were starting to make a lot more sense. The flowers, the amulet…  _the ring_. “Wait… by 'fascinate', are you implying some sort infatuation?”

Puzzled, the Daedra looked up. “Are those words not interchangeable? Should I list other synonyms for you to make myself clear? I am simply enraptured… charmed… captivated…” Each word that left Mora’s mouth drew him a step closer, and his tendrils peeled away in kind. Soon the Daedra was within arm’s reach, and he lifted Rowan’s injured wrist to inspect the purple marks that had bloomed on the tanned skin. "Tell me, there must be some way to rid myself of these...  _feelings_?”

Thoughts swirled through Rowan’s head, none of which were helpful for his current situation. “Uh…”

"It appears you similarly do not have an answer…” He released his hold on Rowan's wrist, an obvious displeasure written on the Daedra's face at what he had seen. “Regretfully, Mephala has always been more knowledgeable in these matters than I have.”

Mention of Mora's sibling brought some semblance of coherent thought back to Rowan. “What  _is_  Mephala planning?” Rowan asked, grabbing the hand that reached for his cheek and halting its progress.

“Your death.” The Daedra spoke simply, not bothering to go into further details. Mora leaned in deeper, pushing Rowan back into the pillows and boxing him in against the headboard. The Daedra's black robe seemed to melt from his shoulders to simply pool at his slim waist. “Surely you can understand my predicament… my  _need_  to keep you safe.”

Staring at the expanse of pristine skin revealed before him, Rowan hesitated, his mind at conflict with his body at the strange turn of events.

"If men aren't to your liking..." Mora said finally, his words sliding into softer tones, as the harsh masculine lines of his lithe body did the same. A gorgeous woman sat in Mora's place, those same gold-green eyes peering down at the Dragonborn expectantly. "I can be accommodating," the Daedra purred, running a delicate hand up Rowan's front, the other dipping lower to rest on his manhood.

Rowan gulped, averting his eyes slightly. The sudden change surprised him, and it seemed as if he was suddenly staring at a nude - albeit a still incredibly beautiful - stranger.

The Daedra's hands stopped, instead moving to rest on Rowan's stomach to rise and fall with his quickened breath. "Am I not attractive?" Mora cocked his-  _her?_  head to the side, snow white hair gliding across Altmer-like green flesh.

"No... ah... no," he stammered as hands resumed roaming over his front, slipping under his tunic and tugging it somewhat forcefully over his head. A light dusting of rose touched his cheeks. "I wasn't aware you could do that."

"Oh," the Daedra said as if everything suddenly made sense. "Sometimes I forget the limitations of your species."

"Limitations?" questioned Rowan, not quite making eye contact with the naked elven-like woman straddling him.

"Yes. Daedra have no definite gender, simply preference.  _I_ have none."

"But you were a man. Surely that shows one?"

"No. I chose based on your perception of me. In your mind, I am associated with knowledge... learning. You associated both of these things to a teacher from your youth. Hence, why you heard my voice as male when we first met, and furthermore, why I appeared before you as such. At the time, it seemed… appropriate."

"And now?"

"I wish to make this a pleasant experience for you," Mora tilted her head away to look at some distant point. "I've...  _reflected,_  and I have come to realize I have not considered your opinion on such matters."

"And, you think I prefer women?" Rowan asked incredulously, a slight smirk pulling at the corner of his lips. He turned his head to finally face her. “What if I’m similarly indifferent?”

Mora looked back to him with a momentary expression of confusion that quickly shifted into one of flustered embarrassment. "I merely based my conjecture on your close relationship with that Nordic woman."

 _Nordic? Oh... Lydia._ Rowan hadn't thought about Lydia in a while and the reminder was like a punch in the gut. "Well, that relationship fell through. No thanks to you." His words turned bitter, accusing.

"You are so quick to blame me for your woes. I have you know,  _that_ inevitable disaster was Mephala's work."

The Dragonborn had no response. Everyone who had watched them knew it wouldn’t have worked out between him and Lydia – despite how much Rowan had wanted it.

The Daedra frowned at his continued silence, and yanked the chain forward, pulling the collar - and attached Dragonborn - with it.

His lips crashed into hers as his hands reached out for support, finding none but the slender figure in front of him. He fought against the hand that threaded through his hair, and against the downward pressure of the firmly held black chain. Rowan’s own fingers tightened around Mora's thin shoulders as he came to realize the futility of his struggles against the ancient being.

The edges of Mora's frayed robe came to life, the green-black fabric more akin to the tendrils he was so used to seeing from the Daedra. They moved tentatively up his sides, coiling and uncoiling around the curves of his muscles as if desperately trying to memorize his shape. Their touch was cold at first, the heat building into a fevered frenzy as the Daedra pressed into him tighter, falling with him as Rowan collapsed into the pillows.

Mora retreated slightly, and Rowan greedily gulped down breaths of air.

The Daedra's expression turned surprisingly meek as the tendrils that went for the laces on his pants, were anything but. The tied knot did little to dissuade them, and soon he felt a grip around his cock teasing him to full mast. Gentle hands moved to slide up his front, scratching faint lines over his collarbones, as Mora bent forward to allow her tendrils to guide his blunt head to her entrance. She sank onto him, sheathing his full length into her moist heat. The cutest moan slipped from her lips as her walls pulsed around his girth, unused to the invasion.

Rowan wriggled uncomfortably as the tendrils wrapped around his torso tightened with each throb of her heat. “You’re going to snap me in half,” he joked half-heartedly, but his concern was very real.

She hummed a response, but her tendrils didn’t seem to let up as she rolled her hips.

A sharp gasp was drawn from him, but he was more worried about his straining ribs than the pleasure that jolted through his body. “Alright… As fun as this is, you’re going to break something." He pulled against the binding working up his torso, barely managing to shake away a tendril that had slithered around his resisting arm. "Might even end up doing Mephala’s dirty work for her.”

The tendrils paused and reluctantly eased up, resuming their exploratory touches up his chest and over his shoulders. “So fragile,” Mora said, pulling herself up and gliding back down. “You can break…hmmm… so easily.”

“Nnngh… Welcome to the world of us mere mortals,” he tried through gritted teeth. “Where vigorous sex can kill us.” Rowan gave a light chuckle, but its mirth was tinted with resentment at how weak he was in comparison to the Daedra perched astride him.

Mora gave the black chain a short tug, dragging his face up to her's as she laid a quick kiss to his lips. “Then I shall drag you from that world kicking and screaming…” She smirked, and Rowan wondered just how serious the Daedra had been about that unspoken promise.

****

"Stay, Champion. Stay where I can protect you." Mora rested her head against his chest, listening to his post-bliss heartbeat. A slender finger came up to trace the underside of his jaw, ending with a lazy tap on his chin. "Mephala's nearly succeeded twice. There may come a time where I can’t intervene.”

"I'll take my chances."

Mora sighed, the noise vaguely disappointed. Her expression grew unreadable as her hood slid back to cover her crown of yellow-green eyes. “You should get some rest.”

“And you?”

“I shall remain for a while. My servants will return to watch over you when I can no longer.” The soft tones vanished, and Mora was once more a man.

“You can't keep me here forever, Mora.”

The Daedra stepped away from the bed, his robe shifting to cover his exposed skin. “It would be in your best interest to start eating the food I leave out for you.” There was the barest hint of a command to the Daedra's words. “I doubt Sovngarde would be open to you if you so stupidly starved to death.”

Rowan just grunted and rolled over, leaving his back exposed to the Daedra – the act itself a simple gesture of recently garnered trust.

****

The Dragonborn roused some hours later, woken by his growling stomach. Beside him lay Mora in a deep sleep, exhaling and inhaling lightly.  _Huh, so Daedra do sleep,_  he thought to himself, touching the bandage around his wrist then the one that had been wrapped expertly around his throat. The collar was no longer in place.

He swung his legs out and stared blankly at the wall, trying to process the events of the night before. His head fell to his hands and he pressed his palms to his eye sockets.  _It was just his luck to have the Daedric Prince of Knowledge interested in him... if he could call it that - mortal normalities be damned._ Rowan sighed inwardly, and let his arms rest on his thighs. His eyes scanned down the wall again, catching on a simple ring of polished steel on his left hand. Some sort of blue stone had been wrapped in a thin band around the ring’s center -  _blue Howlite_  if he had to hazard a guess. _Simple in design, yet difficult to execute._ He tried yanking the jewelry off, but it tightened until he couldn't pull it past his first knuckle.

"What the-" The Dragonborn relented and the ring loosened in turn. Beyond the obvious, 'can't take the damned ring off' enchantment, there didn't seem to be any other. He sighed again and ruffled his hair. _At least its size wouldn’t hinder his movements should he use a sword with it._

Rowan was annoyed, but despite the part of him just wanting to tell Mora off, he figured it best to slip away unnoticed.  _Who knows what a just woken Daedra is like._ He rose from the bed and quickly dressed before heading downstairs to yet another meal laid out.

Snatching a sweetroll from the spread, he turned to inspect a sudden draft coming from his entranceway.

There was a gaping hole in the wall, the wound lined with iron casing preventing Mora’s metal from sealing it back up. 

_Was this a test? Or an opportunity?_

Rowan cast a quick glance up the stairs, and catching no sign of movement, crawled out the hole – making sure to first grab his armor, sword, and shield.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I dunno where the names Cloister and Abby came from… my brain thought they were ironic at the time, and they ended up sticking.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mora might be pushing himself too hard. Vaermina comes by to say hello. Mephala decides to have a little fun at the Dragonborn’s expense.

"I win brother,” cackled Mephala.

“Not yet,” Mora ground out through clenched teeth, taking in the sight of his champion.

_Ebony armor shattered. Shield thrown clear of the battleground. Dragonbone sword broken in half and just out of arm’s reach. A crimson pool growing below the Nord’s battered form; fueled by each ragged breath and weakening beat of his mortal’s heart._

“Not yet,” the Daedric Prince whispered to himself as he put more magic into the barrier protecting his mortal from Mephala’s horde. His own servants fought diligently, but they were unused to the chaotic methods of the Spider Daedra, and their numbers dwindled. Mora would have to interfere soon, but he couldn’t risk lowering the shield - his champion wasn’t in any state to dodge should an attack be suddenly directed his way.

Mephala looked amused; relaxing back into a hammock of spun web that hung by the ancient stones their battle was fought on. “You’re only prolonging his suffering,” she said as she inspected a clawed hand.

His mortal struggled to look at him, a defeated expression playing across his features as his ice-blue eyes fought to stay open.

_This wasn’t supposed to happen. How did it come to this…?_

"Mora!"

He turned to the owner of the voice, a Spider Daedra, charging at him, trying to distract him. Mora reacted immediately, his tendrils snaking forward and stabbing the wretch in several places - arms, torso, head. It gurgled at him through a hole in its throat, the noise resembling a question more than the typical curse or threat.

The world around them melted, the illusion broken. The Daedric Prince was no longer in a ruin, but in his mortal's home. The creature he thought he had killed was not one of Mephala's, but his. His  _champion_ to be more precise. The Nord looked stunned, puzzled even, by the turn of events - Mora's deadly black tendrils protruding from his fragile, _mortal_  body.

Acting more on instinct than sense, Mora quickly retracted them. Spurts of blood flowed from the fresh injuries, and he could only watch in rapt horror as his mortal's knees buckled, his body collapsing into the Prince's.

_No. No. NO!_

He didn't want to believe it, _couldn't believe it,_ even when the spark of life faded from those cool, blue eyes, leaving nothing behind.

Mora clutched his champion's body tightly, trying to recall anything to fix this mess, to bring that defiant life back to him. But his memory was failing him as fear and panic took hold. "I'm sorry," he choked out, as he cradled the cooling body in his arms. "I'm sorry,  _Rowan_."

_Mephala had won._

****

Mora blinked into the new day, not quite sure what to expect. There was no blood, no body. He sat up slowly and wiped away the moisture sliding down his cheeks.  _Tears_ , a part of him answered.  _Impossible_ , another denied. Then he was struck by another thought. He had been dreaming.  _Another impossibility._  He was a Daedric Prince. He didn't sleep, didn't dream, he had no need. And yet, the Prince felt relief at the realization: _He hadn’t lost yet._

"How interesting..." came Vaermina's voice from a hairline fracture formed in the air. His spells would only allow her so much access to his mortal's home. "I thought I sensed you trespassing into my realm, but I didn't expect it to be as a dreamer."

"I had no intention of trespassing," Mora corrected, sitting upright and setting his feet firmly on the ground.

The Prince could almost hear her wave off his comment. "As do all the dreamers who enter Quagmire. But a Daedric Prince..." She tsked lightly. "You haven't been taking care of yourself, Hermaeus Mora. How much energy are you putting into maintaining this little cage, that  _body_  of yours?"

"I do not see how that is your business."

Vaermina scoffed. "You should choose your words carefully, or Mephala won't be the only one after your champion's life."

He stiffened. "I thought you had no interest in our wager."

"And I still don't. But it's hard to overlook an opportunity that presents itself so openly and in such an interesting way. I would be a fool to not take advantage."

Mora remained silent, not giving Vaermina a confirmation or a denial to her cutting words.

“Despite Mephala’s prior transgressions, it seems that she has indeed given me something in return; the chance to see you squirm, to dread every rising sun that it might be your mortal’s last.”

“Why are you telling me this?” he said, his fingers reflexively curling around the green blanket he had lain upon.

“The boon you asked of me earlier. I extend it now to Mephala. Hopefully, she uses it to her full advantage.”

A screech rose and fell upon the portal’s closure, leaving the acrid smell of sulfur to linger in its absence.

When Mora felt for his champion and found the Nord to be missing, he didn’t panic. Instead, he was disappointed. He had hoped his mortal would see reason, that Rowan would understand the danger he was in and stay where it was safe. That just maybe, Rowan could trust him enough to handle things. But deep down, Mora knew that his champion wanted freedom more than anything - that was why he had created the hole in the first place. At least the ring would hide the Nord from Mephala’s sight – similar to how she had done, so many weeks ago.

The Prince frowned, recalling Vaermina’s conversation. He hadn’t anticipated the other Daedra would involve herself further, and his hidden enchantment could do little against her dream magic.

It seemed he just couldn’t leave his mortal alone after all.

* * *

Rowan's lungs burned with exertion as he fell back upon a large oak. Hot blood seeped through his fingers, and he pressed a hand tighter around the wound at his side. He couldn’t rest long; the thing was still hunting him.

It wasn’t a bear, and sure as Oblivion wasn’t some type of sabre cat - the thing’s claws had torn through his armor like it was butter.

The snap of a twig. The rustle of branches. He had to move again.

A roar tore through the silence as the beast caught his scent. The thing ripped through the foliage trying to get at him, tearing up roots and shredding branches that crossed its path.

The Dragonborn ran harder than he had in his entire life as he weaved through the still dormant trees, the beast tight on his heels.

Hitting open ground didn't make things any easier, and he almost found himself wishing he was back in the forest where the thing was at least as hampered as he was, if not more, by the woody growth. Out in the open, Rowan was at a severe disadvantage.

Fortunately, the level ground shifted to a slope gradually getting steeper and steeper.

A particular outcrop of rocks looked promising, and Rowan scrambled up the sheer side of them. Adrenaline fueled every movement as he rushed from handhold to handhold. The beast's large form proved unsuited for rock climbing, and the Dragonborn was beginning to gain some significant distance.

But, it wasn't about to let him off that easily. The thing pounced, its claws sinking into his calf and drawing a fresh stream of crimson.

Rowan almost lost his grip, but managed to bear the pain as the beast lost its hold and slid back down. He hauled himself up the rest of the way, barely avoiding the thing's next leap.

This time it landed higher, its massive paws digging deep lines into the rock as its hind legs struggled to find purchase.

The Dragonborn limped backwards, putting some distance between him and his pursuer. He felt stone press into his back, and a small pebble knocked against his ebony plate armor on its way down. That small pebble was the first of many, the ancient rock face woken by the savage roars of the beast in front of him. He pressed tighter against the stone trying to avoid the sudden assault from above, when he saw an answer. A narrow gap, just big enough if he slid through sideways. He couldn't guarantee where it led - if it led anywhere at all - but it beat being crushed or eaten.

Just as larger rocks began their sudden descent, the Dragonborn squeezed himself through the gap. His exit sealed quickly behind him. With nowhere else to go, he moved further in, finding that the passageway widened the farther he traveled.

The way gradually expanded to a cavern, and he slid - grateful for the extra space - to the floor. Thin shafts of light filtered through holes in the ceiling - each far too small to escape through. With weak fingers, he fumbled with the straps of his armor, pulling off his chestpiece and left boot to inspect the damage.

While the wounds still bled freely, the injuries themselves were fairly minor compared to some of the things he's had to deal with, but without access to his healing potions, he didn't want to push it.  _He'd need to bind them._  Rowan proceeded to strip from the remainder of his armor, salvaging strips of cloth and soft leather to make temporary bandages. It wasn't pretty, and his armor had been somewhat rendered useless in the process, but at least the flow had slowed significantly.

He allowed himself a moment to rest but was quickly on alert again when he heard a set of footsteps approach. The Dragonborn rose to his feet, careful to avoid putting any weight on his leg, and drew his sword. The dragonbone gleamed in the dim light, as his visitor crept closer.

"Rowan?" The voice sounded confused. "Rowan, is that you?"

"Lydia?" he asked, sounding just as confused as she had.

"By the Gods! What happened?" Lydia exclaimed as she came into view. She was upon him in seconds, forcing him to sit down and tearing off his makeshift bandages despite his feeble protests. The Nordic woman looked worried - but then, when did she not when he got hurt. She riffled through a small sack at her side, pulling out a small vial containing a reddish liquid. "Drink it. It should patch you up."

In no place to refuse, he accepted the healing potion, drinking down the vile tasting substance in large gulps. "That one of Arcadia's?" Rowan asked, passing the empty vial back. "Woman never could get the taste right."

"They work. That's what matters," Lydia defended, nervously tucking a stray hair behind an ear.

"Doesn't make them any more palatable." Within seconds, he could feel his skin stitching closed. It couldn't do anything to replace the blood he already lost, but he wouldn't be losing any more.

Lydia rolled her eyes and helped him back to his feet. Still a little wobbly, he leaned heavily on the small woman, pulling a small smile from her lips. "Just like the old days, huh?"

"Yeah." He winced when they started walking; the just-healed flesh was still a little tender. "Speaking of, how did you get here?"

"I..." She sighed. "I needed to clear my head. So, I figured, what better way then go exploring?" Her expression turned sheepish and she looked away slightly.

"Glad you did," Rowan nodded, finally finding the strength to stand on his own. The pair separated, an awkward silence filling the space between them. “Lydia I…” was all he managed before the woman lunged at him, her arms wrapping tight around his middle.

“I missed you,” she said, burrowing his face into his chest. “I missed you so much Rowan.”

Rowan stood there stunned, his arms hesitantly hovering over her shoulders, before coming to embrace her in return. “So did I…” He planted a kiss against her hair, his breath barely stirring the chestnut brown locks.

He raised a hand to caress the side of her face, and she leaned into the touch as his thumb stroked softly across her cheek. “I love you,” he whispered into her ear.

She peered up at him, her eyes red from held back tears. Despite her strength, in that moment, Lydia looked so fragile and...  _so… beautiful._  Rowan bent down, his nose brushing hers. Her emerald eyes fluttered shut as the distance between them closed. He kissed her, soft and hesitant - a small thing that bloomed into a heavy want. Lydia’s arms wound around his neck as his hands, in turn, pulled her in tighter, one pressing up in the small of her back while the other tangled in her hair.

They broke apart only to breathe before their mouths locked once more, their teeth and lips a flurry of nips and carnal touches. She yanked him forward, and he braced himself, but discovered the years of leaves that had blown in through the tiny crevasses had created an earthy bed below them.

Eager hands groped at each other. Fingers tangled in fabric and buckles as they couldn’t bear parting for even a second to undress properly. He worked each piece of her steel armor off slowly, lavishing the revealed skin with soft touches and kisses.

She squirmed beneath him, her body warm and inviting. Rowan slowed, their eyes meeting. "Are you sure about this?" he asked.

Lydia blushed and gave his shoulder a tap with her fist. "You undress me, and then ask if I want this?" she teased. "You idiot, of course I want this."

That was all the confirmation he needed.

Rowan sank into her, her velvet heat guiding him to her core. Her legs wrapped around his hips, preventing him from pulling out too far. She moaned beneath him, meeting him thrust for thrust. Lydia's fingernails raked across his wide back, leaving long red lines, marking the Dragonborn as hers.

"Tell me... Rowan," Lydia managed between breaths.

"Tell you what?"

"Tell me, you're mine. That you'll be with me forever."

There was a certain pleading in her eyes Rowan hadn't expected, and he almost complied then and there. But, something held him back. Something that buzzed in his ears and set his hair on edge. A ring he hadn't noticed before, sat heavy on his left hand, and his words turned hesitant. "I'm..."

She looked up him expectantly, her hands carding through his loose hair. "Please... I want to hear those words from you."

"I..." The buzzing had grown to a dull ache, and he shook his head to clear it.

"What's wrong?" Lydia sounded concerned, but somehow the authenticity of it was lacking.

"I..." That was when he noticed it. Streaks of red cracking through the green in her eyes. A subtlety that revealed the woman's true nature. He wanted to kick himself for his foolishness. "You're not Lydia," the Dragonborn growled, trying to untangle himself from her limbs - to no avail.

The Daedra beneath him clicked her tongue, the vision of Lydia disappearing into the cruel appearance of Mephala. "Can you blame me for trying? After all, you are so caring, so  _passionate_  when you want to be."

Rowan bristled, his pride severely wounded at revealing such an intimate part of himself.

"Where does my brother have you tucked away, hmmm?" Mephala dragged him in closer and gave his earlobe a sharp tug with her teeth.

His only response was the sudden glower on his face.

“Ohh, so scary,” the Daedra mocked. “Next time then,  _Champion_.”

****

Next thing he knew, he was lying awake under a canopy of stars. Rowan’s black mare was nearby with her head bowed in sleep. He didn’t have the heart to wake her yet, but he wasn’t about to fall asleep again. 

The Dragonborn ran an angry hand through his hair, and let out a silent curse for whichever god was listening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How many of you put on your "skepticals" in that last bit?


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The horse had enough of this bull. Mephala is to be going more direct (or maybe not). Mora might not be as invincible as he seems.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if Saadia is OoC, I can barely remember any significant dialogue with her, short of the typical greetings and whatever else have you.

After only a few days traveling the wilds, his mare had started protesting against his aimless meandering. It was by the fourth day - interrupted only by brief rests - when his horse finally refused to move completely. She was tired, and the constant drizzle did little to improve her mood.

"Oh, come on." Rowan dug his heels into her sides again to try and get the black mare moving. He wasn't in any better shape; Mephala remained a constant haunting presence every time he closed his eyes.

The mare huffed, small white clouds billowing from her nostrils in the damp, chilled air. She wasn't going anywhere.

Releasing his hold on the reins and sliding from the saddle, the Dragonborn sighed. "Aren't you a stubborn one?"

She gave him a light bop with her soft nose, the motion rattling some of his plate mail.

"I guess I am too," he grumped but caught himself before a reminiscent smirk made it to his lips. He wasn't going to think about it – even if the sex thus far had been, admittedly, pretty amazing. Rowan took up the reins and gave a stone a kick as he started walking forward.

His horse wasn't about to be tricked into moving. A short jerk and Rowan had to stop. The reins pulled taut as his mare turned her large head to look behind them.

The Dragonborn half expected to see a  _certain_ Daedra following them. A certain Daedra of Knowledge, but there was nothing there. "I'm not going back. I don't care what he… she…  _whatever,_ " Rowan said with an exasperated tone, "bribed you with."

The mare snorted and gave another tug. There was never any compromising with the beast; he had learned that the hard way. Moving to the mare's side to fish out a collapsible rucksack, he began shuffling things between the saddlebags and his person.

His rucksack grew heavy with travel rations, a spare change of clothes, and a deerskin tent he'd use when the rain proved to be completely insufferable; anything else he could purchase along the way. He made amply sure to leave a short note and enough coin that the stable hands at Whiterun would understand. It wouldn't be the first time he had sent his horse back ahead of him, and the mare seemed to always know the way better than he did.

Rowan gave her a pat on the neck, smoothing water out from her dark coat. "There. Head back if you want."

She pawed at the ground with a heavy front hoof, digging a small trench in the mud.

"Go on," he shooed.

The horse gave another snort as she shook out her mane.

"It'd be another story if you want to actually keep going." Rowan refused to be swayed, refused to return to his  _cage_ where he'd be forced to hide behind Mora's protection. He could take care of himself.  _It's how it's always been since…_ The Dragonborn shook his head. There was no point dwelling on things now, it's what he promised himself, and it's what he promised Bowen.

Displeased with Rowan's decision, his black mare turned and began to trot away.

****

Rowan had given up on wearing his heavy armor, trading it in for basic leather armor from the first traveling merchant he chanced upon. He got a strange look from the Khajiit as he stripped and handed his own over, but the beast-woman wasn't about to argue with a transaction in her obvious favor. The leather fit well enough, chafing in only a few places, and as an added bonus to the reduced weight of his inventory, he was significantly less recognizable when he had to chance the road to replenish his limited stock of food.

He had already traveled a fair bit through the marshy terrain, and the constant fog only added to his overall misery. Sleep was a constant and avid contender for Rowan's attention, and eventually, he was willing to agree with his body as he struggled to keep his eyes open. It wasn't safe to continue in his state; regardless of what awaited him when he closed his eyes.

The Dragonborn quickly set up camp, not bothering with a fire as it wouldn't light easily under such damp conditions. At least it was dry in his tent, and his bedroll retained some heat from its last use.

Rowan snuggled in, shivering only slightly from when he peeled off the soaking leather armor. His left his armor piled nearby, and his sword and shield tucked even closer. Even if he was ambushed, he'd have some means of defending himself.

Despite his overwhelming tiredness, sleep did not come easy. He tossed and turned as dread built, fueled undoubtedly by how long he had managed to avoid either Daedra.

The Dragonborn was due for an eventful visit.

****

Water dripped at a frequent, if not constant, rate from the dark cavern's stone ceiling. A mist swirled along the dirt floor, revealed by the orange glow of the single torch ensconced in a nearby wall. The space he occupied was notably small, with no discernible exit or entrance.  _An impossible prison of stone_.

Rowan was dreaming to be sure, but the realization did little to put his mind at ease. He remained as powerless as he would in the waking world; no power of thought able to change his predicament.

He tugged once more at the manacles holding him upright in the center of the round room. A rattle of the chain holding his wrists together was all he got out of his efforts; he wasn't going anywhere.

"Hmmm, look at you all trussed up," a voice purred from above.

The Dragonborn strained to look up. The low ceiling was no longer there, instead it extended far beyond the touch of the torch's light.

"I didn't think you were into chains?" he said sardonically, addressing the spider-like Daedra who was keeping to the shadows.

A chuckle. "I thought you would appreciate some variety every once in a while."

"How considerate…" He licked his parched lips with no idea of what to expect. "Though, how come I never get to pick the place?"

This time he got a small laugh. "Where would the fun in that be?" Her sultry voice had slunk closer, and by his guess, he should have been catching at least glimpses of her. But he definitely wasn't, and it was making Rowan increasingly worried.

"I don't know. I think I could dream up something pretty impressive."

"Perhaps later." Rowan could feel her grin in the darkness, a smug feeling rolling down in waves and chilling him to the core. "For now, there is other business we must attend."

"Oh?" He tried to sound puzzled, as if he had no idea that she was busy hunting him down in the real world. The Dragonborn may have chosen to fend for himself, but it didn't mean that he wouldn't at least heed Mora's concern for his safety.

"You know quite well what I'm asking after Champion. After all, you are no fool." The Daedra revealed herself from the shadows, but she hadn't come from above like he had predicted.

"Then you would know it would be in my interest not to tell you." He spoke slowly, watching as she stalked towards him, her very countenance reminding him of a predator who had finished playing.

Mephala stopped in front of him, her eyes appreciating the prey in front of her. She leaned in close, her claws digging into the flesh of his cheeks and drawing pinpricks of blood. "You can't keep secrets from me...  _Champion_. I won't  _let_ you."

****

Rowan woke up screaming, the pain chasing him into the waking world. Besides a small smattering of birds, and perhaps a hare or two, nothing else was nearby enough to hear him beyond the thin walls of his deerskin tent, and he found a small solace in that knowledge. His nerves were still tingling, his body shaking from phantom sensations. His heartbeat was just beginning to slow from its previously frantic rate. Cold sweat ran in rivulets down his back, and for a moment Rowan thought he was still bleeding.  _It was a dream_ , he told himself,  _just a dream_. His breathing came in ragged breaths, but he was beginning to clear the terror clinging to him.

Despite her cruel oath otherwise, he had managed to keep a secret from Mephala, and the Dragonborn knew the Daedra wouldn't let it rest at that. Mephala had drawn everything she could from him – which wasn't much given the Dragonborn's lack of interest in the stars and surrounding foliage. It was good Rowan had started wandering randomly, not bothering with the road markers that dotted the roadside. If he had, that least would have been some help the Daedric Prince of Lies and Secrets. At best, she could guess he was somewhere on the outskirts of Falkreath Hold, but even for a Daedra, that would be a lot of ground to cover before he started moving during the day.

Begrudgingly, he dragged his weary body out of the confines of his bedroll and started re-donning his armor. It thankfully had dried a fair bit while he was unconscious - sleep being too generous a word to describe what had occurred last night. Once dressed and as ready for the day as he was going to be, Rowan parted the tent flaps and stepped out.

The morning air was cold, and dew clung to everything. His initial reaction was to crawl back into the warm recesses of his tent, but common sense assured him staying put was the last thing he wanted to do.

The Dragonborn collapsed the tent, wringing water from it as he rolled it up and packed it away.

Breakfast proved to be meager - being nothing more than a baked potato from two nights prior when he could get a fire lit. He'd have to risk the road for food, as he didn't want to waste time hunting in the area.

****

Falkreath proved to be the closest signs of civilization as he stumbled upon the Hold. It was barely midday, so he had plenty of time to chat up the innkeep for jobs and perhaps a drink or two. He headed to the inn, barely drawing attention from the guards stationed in and along the Hold's borders.

The Dead Man's Drink was quiet - save for the bard standing in a corner beating out a constant rhythm on his drum. The inn's sparse occupants spared him no more than a couple seconds as he entered, which was fine with him. An Imperial woman stopped sweeping to greet him as she set a broom to the side. "What can I get for you?"

"Food. Something that will last on the road," Rowan answered, propping up his bag against the stool he had perched himself on.

She nodded and then moved to the back.

A Redguard woman saddled up beside Rowan. He recognized the head of short black hair and dark skin. It was Saadia.

"So stranger, you come to these parts often?" asked the Redguard with a small smirk. "On another quest to save some damsel?" She batted her eyelashes dramatically at him.

He chuckled weakly, absentmindedly tapping out a beat in time with the bard's drum. "Nothing as heroic as that."

"Then what finds you in Falkreath? It's hardly a bustling city."

"Could ask you the same thing. Last time I saw you, you were still working at the Bannered Mare."

Saadia snorted. "Ever since you killed Kematu I haven't had to worry about keeping low. You know, I'm not always going to be some barmaid. I do have some higher ambitions."

"I guess I can respect that."

"I guess I can respect that," she parrots with an almost mocking tone. "Rowan, what's gotten you so distracted? That's the third time in our brief conversation that you've looked at your hand. Come on, let me see."

Rowan snatched the hand in question away from her grasping fingers, tucking it around his middle. He regretted it almost immediately, as the action only provoked her curiosity further. She grappled with him. The fingers of her left hand curled around the back of his head as her right reached for his own hand held far above the woman currently pressing tight against his chest.

The innkeep interrupted the pair, returning to the bar with a few dried loaves of bread and a wheel of cheese. "Best I can do on short notice." Her gaze traveled from Rowan to Saadia essentially straddling him and back again. "Will you be needing a room as well?"

"Uhh..." Rowan was drawing a blank as the tips of his ears turned a healthy shade of red from the innkeeper's insinuation.

"Not yet, Valga. I'll let you know if I can change his mind." Saadia gave Rowan a wink, and he turned an even deeper shade of red as she slid giggling from his lap.

He accepted the bread and cheese, dropping a few septims into Valga's waiting hand, and tucked the food into his pack.

With the innkeep returned to some task in the cellar and Rowan thoroughly distracted, Saadia pounced. She tackled him from his seat on the barstool, where his head knocked soundly into the wooden floor.

The Dragonborn hissed with the assault, rubbing the back of his head as the Redguard greedily ripped the glove from his left hand.

Surprise marked her features and her lips formed a soft 'o'. "You didn't tell me you've tied the knot." Saadia's eyes tracked the silver band as Rowan sat up.

"I didn't."

"Then…?"

Rowan sighed and fiddled with the ring that had been revealed. "A joke, I guess… I mean…" He sighed again. "I've tried to take it off, but I can't."

She made a grabbing gesture. "Let me see." The Dragonborn relented, handing his hand over. "Is it just too tight or…?"

"Enchanted," Rowan admitted. "A…  _friend_ put it on, but we parted before he got a chance to remove it."

"And this friend of yours… is he a mage?" There was a certain curiosity to her words that Rowan didn't know how to place.

Rowan scratched subconsciously at his stubble with his free hand as Saadia continued to inspect the band of metal and blue stone. "You could say that."

Saadia hummed and then turned her attention back to the metal band. She had barely touched the ring's surface when suddenly, her fingers recoiled. "Ouch."

"You alright?"

"Yeah, more startled than anything." Saadia gave the ring a nasty glare as if it had personally offended her. "That's some enchantment you got on there. Has it ever sparked you?"

The Dragonborn looked puzzled. "No, I don't think so. It just gets tighter if I try to remove it."

Saadia gave a dry smirk and a slight click of her tongue. "Maybe it doesn't like me."

"It's a ring. I doubt it has any opinions of its own," stated Rowan with slight skepticism.

"Then what about your mage friend?"

"I doubt he would care…"

The Redguard gave a short chuckle at that. "Oh, I think he would. I bet he didn't intend to take that ring off even if you had stuck around long enough for him to remove it."

Rowan’s brows knit together. "What makes you say that?"

The woman only gave him a glance before shaking her head. "Sometimes you are so dense, it's adorable."

"I think I should be taking offense."

"Don't. It's one of the things I like about you." She had leaned in closer then, her hand already sliding over his leather armor to rest at the first buckle securing it in place. "I think your mage friend has every right to be concerned about me."

It took Rowan until Saadia started working on the second buckle before he finally clued in. "Hold on Saadia. I don't think we should do…  _this._ _"_ He first waved in her direction, then in his. Rowan’s Adam’s apple bobbed awkwardly as he swallowed.

She cocked her head and pouted slightly. "Come now, we both know you're interested." Her hand moved lower and she gave him a quick squeeze through his codpiece.

The Dragonborn had to admit, he was interested. It was hard not to be with a gorgeous woman currently straddling him after so long…  _minus any Daedra influence..._ _Damn._  The thought gave him pause, but the way she tilted her head so innocently and the second squeeze she gave him, blasted any remaining hesitation from his mind. He glanced quickly to where Valga had disappeared. "What if she comes back?"

"Then I'll just say it was my fault, and I'll pay for a room. She'll understand." Saadia gave a quick peck to his jaw, before more actively working on his armor.

Rowan gave one last look before his hand slipped to her back and began to untie the laces on her corset. Hands roved over flesh as the pair ground against each other through cloth and leather.

They set an unspoken rhythm, undoing buckles and ties, baring each other to the fire-warmed air. Suddenly, before they got any further, Saadia was yanked away, and he was knocked backward. There were sounds of a scuffle, and by the time Rowan had sat up again, Saadia was gone. Someone then grabbed his arm, dragged him to his feet, and steered him – still very naked – to the inn's exit.

"Wait. Hold up. Whoa!" he complained, trying to twist away and get a glimpse of the stranger. His feet stumbled and he nearly tripped with the rough handling. When he spied a familiar black-green robe, Rowan knew his abductor wasn't about to slow down.

Mora didn't stop until they had left the inn and walked a short ways down the dirt walkway. The Daedra crossed his arms and irritability tapped a finger. "Why…?" He drew his lips into a tight line and growled slightly. "Must you always be so naïve?"

"Naïve? Listen here-" Rowan stopped, the words he was going to say lost to the surreal cracked sky and the sudden lack of any other building. He let his accusing finger fall away.  _He was dreaming._ "Then that was…"

"Mephala," Mora ground out between clenched teeth, "and knowing your promiscuity, I doubt this was the first time."

Rowan spluttered, his voice cracking. "Excuse me!"

Mora was in little mood to humor his outburst, choosing instead to disregard it and stare out to their surroundings. "You'll be waking shortly. When you do, take your leave and meet me at the town's Southern exit."

It was the Dragonborn's turn to growl, but any retort was cut off by the sight of Saadia swimming into view - the real one this time and still fully clothed. The wooden roof stared down at him and Valga was standing nearby with a bucket of what he hoped was just cold water.

"Are you alright Rowan? Sorry, wasn't expecting the stool to tip as it did."

"I'm fine," he assured her, sitting up and rubbing the small bump forming on the back of his head. "How long was I out?"

"A few minutes… You sure you're alright?"

"I'm sure." Rowan stood. Retrieving his pack, he slipped another few septims on the table to pay for his drink and made for the door.

"Where are you heading so soon?"

His hand hovered with a slight hesitance over the door. He inwardly sighed. Again he had no way to explain his connection with Mora. "I'm on a bit of a time crunch."

Saadia pursed her lips, unsatisfied with his answer, but didn't pursue it further. "Don't be a stranger," he heard her shout.

****

Out of childish spite, he headed towards the Northern exit; only to be foiled as Mora was there waiting for him. His steps slowed, each one becoming more reluctant than the last. "I thought you said the 'Southern entrance'."

"You haven't been listening to me thus far. Why would I have assumed you would do so now?" The Daedra sounded weary, tired, though there were still traces of the anger from before. "Come."

"No."

"I won't ask again Champion," Mora said with a frightening finality - one which Rowan promptly and purposefully ignored.

"Answer's still no."

The Daedra's eyes narrowed through the shadow of his hood, and he subtly mouthed an ancient threat to the ground. "Mephala moves quickly to this inn. It is in your best interest that we depart."

Rowan looked back to the inn over his shoulder, letting the Daedra's words wash over him. "It wouldn't just be in  _my_ best interest…"

"If you worry for the mortals of this Hold, then yes. Use that then as an excuse to join me. I doubt Mephala would be discriminating should she come across them."

"I haven't agreed to leave with you, just that I cannot stay here." The Dragonborn pushed past the Daedra, his shoulder bumping rudely against dark robes.

"Champion." A hand shot out to grab his arm, but Rowan shook the slender fingers away. Black ichor trailed across Rowan's leather gloves. Their eyes met and Mora tucked his injured hand away into the recesses of his robes, not mentioning anything as the wound dripped onto the dirt path.

Gawking slightly – not that he would have admitted to doing so – Rowan started, "That…"

"Superficial at best." Mora appeared frustrated and huffed lightly to himself. "I simply misjudged Mephala's tenacity in my haste to separate her from you…"

It wasn't often that the Daedra admitted to making mistakes, and Rowan found it surprisingly endearing despite the worrying implications of the injury. "If you say so." The Dragonborn readjusted his pack and continued walking.

"I do." The Daedra followed after, trailing behind one or two steps behind.

Rowan sighed. It seemed he wasn't going to shake the Daedra so easily. "I hope you can hunt. I don't have enough supplies for the both of us."

"I can, but there would be no point. I have no need for sustenance of that form."

"But you do require something?"

"Yes… but I can go without for a time. It is not something that you need worry about." Mora shook out the wrinkles of his robes, careful to not reveal his injury.

 _Let the Daedra have his secrets, and maybe he'll let you have yours,_ Rowan thought as he charged ahead with no real destination in mind.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Basically Daedra bonding time, with some serious talk at the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Were any of you wanting a chibi scene of Mora carrying Rowan... well you're in luck! It exists!! Click [here](http://skitamine.tumblr.com/post/167531535418/chibi-rowan-and-mora-3) to see some adorable fanart!

Rowan poked the fire between them with a large stick, shifting the piled logs and sending a small smattering of sparks into the air. He refused to make eye contact with the Daedra standing opposite.

"You are quiet Champion."

The Dragonborn grit his teeth, his eyes focused on the dancing flames. "Outstanding observation," he replied with just a little more bite than intended.

"I do not understand your animosity. I had merely stated a fact."

This time Rowan met Mora's shadowed eyes. "Gee, I wonder why? For someone with so much knowledge you sure don't understand how we mere mortals work."

"If you are upset about earlier, I can assure you, that man had every intention to cheat you."

"You drove him insane."

"Indeed," the Daedra replied calmly. "I had thought you would thank me."

"Thank you?!"

"The deviant still lives and I sincerely doubt anyone else will fall for his guiles. All is for the better."

Rowan could feel the beginnings of a massive headache. "He was a merchant. It's what they do." He threw the stick he had been holding to the hungry fire and mussed an irritated hand through his hair. "How is he supposed to earn a living now?"

Mora gave a dismissive shrug. "My concern _Champion,_ lies solely with _your_ wellbeing, not that of a simple merchant’s."

The Dragonborn turned his attention back to the fire, his features trapped in a bitter expression. "Clearly..."

The fire crackled, initiating a new silence between them.

Rising from his crouch with a frustrated sigh, Rowan crawled into the recesses of his fire-warmed bedroll. The Dragonborn muttered an automatic 'g'night' and was surprised when several seconds later he heard a hesitant 'good night,' as if the Daedra was still pouring over what was particularly good about the night.

****

The small road-side tavern the traveling pair eventually happened upon was so unknown; Rowan had to make his own black mark on the crumpled parchment map before they entered the establishment.

"How may I help?" The owner was a tall but skinny man, his skin heavily weathered through long hours in the sun - likely due to maintaining the garden Rowan had spied outside. "Most of our mead is still brewing, but I got a few bottles of last month's batch."

 _So not a tavern, a brewery,_  he mentally corrected himself, setting his rucksack at the entranceway. "I was hoping more for some food, haven't had anything since last night." His stomach grumbled embarrassingly on cue.

The man chuckled. "You're in luck then. I got a fresh pot of vegetable stew in the back, and some dried venison if you need something more suited for the road."

Rowan returned the laugh. "At this point, both sound good."

"Well, that certainly gets you settled. How about your friend over there?" The owner gestured to Mora who was eyeing various things around the small service area with a quizzical interest.

"Just give him whatever's drinkable." The Dragonborn leaned in a little closer and lowered his voice. "I'm still a little annoyed that he's the reason we're stopping in the first place."

The old man nodded knowingly. "It's always the skinny ones that seem to just pack it all away. I'll have my daughter, Lena, dip into the back to fetch something."

Nodding his thanks, Rowan sauntered to the only table and slide into the adjacent bench. He wasn't about to correct the brewery owner that Mora hadn't eaten the last of his reserves, but had single-handedly destroyed a merchant's livelihood when Rowan was bartering with the unfortunate man – albeit rather poorly and ultimately instigating the entire event.

The Daedra in question sat down beside Rowan, curiosity sated for the time being. "If you had need for sustenance, you need only ask for such." Mora kept his voice low, and his nose wrinkled as if catching an unpleasant odor. Rowan didn't smell anything out of the ordinary.

"Not from you. I'm still concerned over that sweetroll I ate."

Mora looked offended. "I was assured that everything was within acceptable standards for mortal tastes. Even more so for Men."

"I'm sure your worshippers would say just about anything to please you." Rowan remained unimpressed.

"Perhaps." The Daedra frowned briefly. "Though that would not explain their continued employment at the White-Gold Tower."

Rowan's jaw dropped slightly as Mora's words sunk in. "Wait, you got some chefs from the  _Imperial Palace_  to sample your cooking?"

"Sample? Nay. They prepared the whole thing themselves. Every morsel you  _snubbed_ , every plate left  _untouched_. They were  _glad_  to do so for me," huffed Mora somewhat aggrievedly.

The Daedra's words were like a slap to the face, and were delivered as such. Had Rowan known, well, his inner gourmand wanted to cry.

Fortunately, the young woman - Lena if he remembered correctly - came by with two tankards to distract Rowan from his misery. She was a pretty thing, young, with curly red hair that settled around her shoulders. Her skin carried a heavy tan similar to her father's, but as she placed a mug in front of him, Rowan caught sight of milky white flesh peeking out from her low neckline.

Lena caught him staring, and flashed an embarrassed smile. Rowan coughed and returned the same. "There you go, and I'll be back with your stew." Her voice was rough but still melodic, and it seemed to match the slight tone of muscle that pulled underneath the fabric of her blue dress.

"Thanks." This time he gave her a more genuine smile and raised the tankard to his lips in brief cheers. She giggled then turned away, disappearing behind a large barrel.

In her absence, Rowan turned his gaze to the old man. The owner smirked, before turning his attention back to wiping down the small tasting bar – it seemed that the man had no qualms with the earlier exchange.

The same couldn't be said of Mora silently fuming beside him. The Daedra's lips were caught in a sneer and his head was still facing where they had both watched Lena depart. He kept his fingers at his side and refused to touch the mead left for him. Rowan nudged Mora, and the Daedra's shadowed eyes fell to the table. A tendril circled the Dragonborn's ankle, and despite attempts to dislodge it, the warm oily appendage was adamant to stay.  _As long as no one else notices, it should be fine_ , he hoped. The tendril slid higher as Lena approached with a stew bowl in hand. And, ignoring the temperature shift of the tendril tightening around his leg, Rowan subtly licked his lips, eager for the promise of warm food.

She set the bowl down and handed him a wooden spoon. Their hands touched briefly, and it felt like ice had replaced the tendril latched to his leg. It was startling, to say the least, and Rowan's discomfort must have shown on his face.

"Is something the matter?" she asked innocuously enough, leaning in closer so Rowan got a good eyeful of her assets this time. The tendril snaking around his leg tightened again, and he forced a smile around the grimace on his face.

"Nothing at all. Just need to bring my friend outside. It seems like he's had too much to drink."

The barmaid turned to the nearly full mug set in front of the Daedra with a puzzled look, completely unaware of the threatening appendage climbing further up Rowan's leg. "Alright." Her professional smile faltered slightly.

Rowan stood quickly, and the tendril unraveled just as fast. "Come on," he said to the disingenuous Daedra.

Mora rose slowly, his robe settling back into place. He shook out a sleeve and a flawless sapphire toppled onto the table. "For your  _service."_  The Daedra spoke coolly, the barest hint of a threat veiled in his words.

The Dragonborn grabbed the back of Mora's robe and dragged him through the door before the Daedra did anything further.

****

"What is your problem?"

"The  _harlot_ wishes to copulate with you."

"So?"

"She would hardly be a suitable mate…" scoffed Mora.

"A mate? You think I'm looking to settle down right now?" Rowan started back for the tavern's entrance - he had forgotten his rucksack, not to mention he still wanted to finish the bowl of stew. "You obviously haven't been paying attention."

A thick tendril wrapped around his middle, yanking the Dragonborn away from the door. He struggled briefly, but with his legs dangling beneath him, it was clear Rowan wasn't going to win this one.

"I have been paying attention plenty. That woman is at her most fertile, and you have foolishly been swept up in her mess of animalistic urges."

"It's called flirting, and it wasn't like I was going to lay her..." He left out the part about her being too young and desperate for his liking. Not that the Dragonborn could fault her for it; the desperation was likely a by-product of living in the middle of nowhere. "Besides, why should you care?" 

 _That_  had obviously been the wrong thing to say to the annoyed Daedra. The tendril squeezed and Rowan wriggled uncomfortably in its grip, trying to shift his position within the tight coils as his ribs complained. "You are my… _champion_ ," Mora said, his voice turning strangely quiet, almost whisper-like. "Why can't you act more like it?"

There was an awkward pause, broken only by Rowan's briefly renewed squirming. "Well, your 'champion' forgot his bag. I have to go back and get it. So if you can just…" The Dragonborn patted the tendril for further emphasis, but if anything, the thick black limb seemed only interested in coiling further into his touch.

"No need. It is here." With little flair, the Daedra revealed Rowan's rucksack, and with equal disinterest, made it disappear again. "I've also gone to the trouble of having it filled. There should be no further reason to stop in places such as  _this_." There was a level of distaste to Mora's tone, and Rowan couldn't help noticing the Daedra's face scrunch up.

"But you  _are_  going to put me down?"

Mora stared at him as though just realizing Rowan's predicament. "Eventually," the Daedra decided.

With the tendril still holding onto the Dragonborn like some child's toy, Mora headed back into the surrounding brush, pulling Rowan with him.

****

As the Daedra walked, the tendril had shifted to something Rowan found more comfortable, but it didn't change the fact that his dignity was leaking out of his boots. At least he couldn't have been humiliated longer than a day; the sun hadn't had the chance to set yet, though it was beginning to threaten the horizon.

"Mora, put me down before someone sees."

"Relax, Champion. No one is near enough to witness your discomfort."

"That's beside the point. I want you to put me down. Now."

The Daedra sighed, long and slow – a stark contrast to Rowan's uttered command. "Very well."

Without much warning, Mora released him and Rowan fell the foot or so awkwardly. A brief pain lanced through the Dragonborn's ankle, but he bore it, limping further away from the Daedra to get some much-needed space. He felt a hand on his shoulder shortly after, despite the distance he made.

"You are injured."

"It's nothing," the Dragonborn said, shrugging off the hand. "A sprain maybe." The Daedra's hand fell to his side, concern flitting across his thin features. For some odd reason, Rowan felt obligated to add, "It'll be better after some rest."

Mora's perturbed expression settled somewhat, but a different one took its place. "Then rest you shall."

"Wai- What are you-" was all Rowan managed to get out before he was swept from his feet. Any further protests went unheard as the conceited Daedra cradled him, an arm supporting Rowan's back and another tucked in the crook of his knees.

"No. No, no, no. This is not going to happen." Rowan kicked and thrashed in the Daedra's hold.

"Champion, if you continue, I may accidentally drop you."

"That's the point. There's no way I'm going to be carried like some blushing bri-" He stopped, not wanting to finish his train of thought. "Let go. I can walk."

"Perhaps, but you may exacerbate your sprain. Handicapping yourself here only serves to help Mephala find you. I have sent my servants ahead to prepare camp. I shall let you down then."

There was some wisdom to the Daedra's words, and Rowan relented slightly. "Fine, but do you  _have_  to carry me like this?"

"No," was all the Daedra offered him, except for maybe the self-satisfied smirk Rowan wanted to smack off his face.

_Bastard…_

****

Surprisingly, Mora kept to his word, letting Rowan down carefully in the middle of a camp much more luxurious than the one-man tent he had grown used to and expected. He cared little for further details, his immediate attention drawn heavily towards the glorious smells coming from the pot suspended over the roaring campfire.

 _Consequences be damned,_ the Dragonborn hobbled quickly towards the welcoming fire and took up the nearby wooden bowl and spoon. His stomach gurgled appreciably, as his pride took a backseat to the hunger that had been growing since he woke up. One tentative spoonful turned into two, then three. Soon, caution was thrown to the wind, and he was ladling himself copious amounts of the beef stew. He barely registered the Daedra joining him, sitting on the far end of the fallen log they currently shared, hands folded neatly in his lap as he watched Rowan devour the potful of food.

"Paint a picture. It'll last longer," Rowan mumbled through a mouthful of savory beef and carrots.

Mora looked away, his expression unreadable. "Yes, it would…" The Daedra's hooded eyes flicked back to him, and in that moment Rowan wanted to label the unknown expression he had seen earlier as 'melancholy'. "Champion, have you ever considered pursuing immortality?"

The spoon hovered in front of his face, but ultimately returned to the bowl untouched. "I guess? I can't say I haven't  _thought_  about it at least."

"If I… If you could become immortal, would you?"

Rowan stared into the depths of his bowl as if the answer would suddenly materialize. When it didn't, he tapped the bowl's edge and gave his own. "No. I don't think I would. I've never seen the need. I mean, I've already earned my place in Sovngarde. What is there left to worry about?"

Mora stiffened and the following silence grew uncomfortable. "Are you certain? Many before you would not pass on such an opportunity."

"Well, I guess I'm not like most people." There was something else that the Daedra wasn't sharing, and it was beginning to irk the Dragonborn. "What's this about Mora? You never get this philosophical with me."

"I was merely curious." Mora rose, brushing imaginary dust from his front. "Now that my curiosity has been sated, I shan't keep you from the rest of your meal."

"Hey, wai-"

The Daedra stepped away quickly, retreating into the extravagant tent set close by, and definitely not stopping for Rowan's barrage of questions his behavior instilled. The Dragonborn frowned, but the wafting smell drew his musings back to the food in front of him.

****

He hated to admit it, but since Mora had started accompanying him, his sleep once again became a place of respite. Apparently, the same couldn't be said of his mornings.

"Wha- What were you doing?" Rowan sat up, still slightly bleary-eyed, but awake enough to scowl at the Daedra bent over him.

"Nothing," the Daedra replied tersely. Several waving tendrils retracted, and the movement was more than enough to clue in the Dragonborn that something was up.

He was easily wide awake now.

"That wasn't 'nothing'. What in Oblivion where you-" His voice trickled off. Rowan would have been more concerned about his impromptu nudity, but the Daedric runes marking his body held a higher priority. A mixture of varying shades of green coated his bared front, dipping into the v of his hardened stomach and trailing off to coil around his toes. "Mora…" he said slowly, flexing his fingers and watching as the dried paint flecked away. A faint glow followed the reveal of skin, fading back to expected tones. "What did you do?"

"Your aversion to immortality proved to be a bit of a challenge. Ultimately, the solution I have concocted was to raise your body's natural resilience..."

"While I was asleep?" he asked slightly mortified, rubbing the marks away with his hands to reveal more glowing lines.  _Too late to do anything about it now,_  he supposed, eyeing the way the Daedra's eyes watched the vanishing glow with satisfaction. "You didn't just think to ask me first?"

"I saw no need. After all, you are just as mortal as before… just a little less likely to meet an untimely demise."

"You mean by Mephala's hands." Rowan tugged on his discarded tunic. Hungry eyes followed his movements as he slipped into his slacks that had been left a little farther away. He'd worry about washing away the remaining paint later – when he didn't have an audience.

"That… or others. Witnessing mortal weakness firsthand has been somewhat educational and…  _concerning_."

"Uh huh." Rowan couldn't help sounding skeptical. "Didn't take you as someone who cared." Scrounging around his pile of things, he found his hair tie and, with a practiced ease, tied his hair back. There was no point on going back to sleep, not when the sun had just begun to dye the overhanging clouds a rosy hue. He began searching for his leather armor, not finding it where he had left it.

"Normally no, but I have become rather... attached to you in particular."

"So you've mentioned..." A thought struck Rowan, one that simplified the Daedra's absurd behavior, and he stopped his brief search to look over his shoulder. "What is your grief with Mephala anyway? You never told me the details… well, besides her wanting me dead."

"Nor do you need to know more-"

"Oh no. You don't get to pull that shit on me. It's my  _life_  that you two are gambling with. I want to know what for." Rowan has never seen a guiltier expression, not even on the pickpocket he had caught, hand in his purse. "What aren't you telling me?"

"I have made a wager to protect you for one year; eight months as of today. Should I succeed, Mephala is to forfeit rights to your soul."

Several black tendrils slunk across the floor to wrap around his legs, ushering Rowan to move closer. Warmth radiated from their touch, and a few slithered up his pant legs to directly coil around his flesh. The Dragonborn refused to budge. Mora was still holding out on him. "What happens if you fail?"

The tendrils paused, then retreated back to their master like beaten dogs. "I…" he started, his mouth forming words but no further sound leaving them. "I…" the Daedra tried again, and again his words failed him. He frowned, his hidden eyes growing dark as his fists clenched. "I am to strip you of your memories. To leave nothing behind, and ensure you would have… no desire for the Grand Hall of Sovngarde."

That hadn't been what Rowan expected, and the terms of his own deal came echoing back. If Mephala wins, she  _gets_  her champion.  _Forever_. And more importantly, regardless of his own will. "And, you would do this?"

"I am bound to oath, as is Mephala. To break such things would insight chaos among the realms."

"Well, it's a good thing then that there's no hair off your back if you fail." Mora seemed to cringe back from Rowan's change in tone.

"Champion…"

"Don't worry, I get it. Couldn't wait to get another Dragonborn into your corral."

"Cham-"

" _Champion…_ " spat Rowan. "What does that even mean to you? Something to flaunt in the faces of other Daedra?"

"Cha-" Mora started but shook his head, the edges of his hood lifting so he could meet the Dragonborn's eyes. "Rowan..."

Suddenly, Rowan was unsure. His name felt so foreign on the Daedra's tongue, that it quelled his rage slightly. "Don't..." Rowan smoothed a hand through his tied hair, before turning his back on the hand reaching for him. "I just need some air."

In quick strides, Rowan marched to the tent's exit, his entire body language telling the Daedra to not follow.

Oddly enough, Mora complied with his unspoken demand, the only thing chasing him being a pleaded, 'Rowan,' as he disappeared past the canvas flaps.

****

He stopped walking when he thought himself far enough away - just barely out of sight of the campsite. Rowan knew he was being foolish, that his best bet out of this situation was to just let Mora handle things.

Running a hand over his face, Rowan sighed. This whole thing would blow over in another few months, and after, he could just go his own Daedra-free way - Mora owed him that much at least.

A snapping twig drew his attention away from his pacing, and he had a few choice words on his tongue for the Daedra he didn't want to see just yet.

Those words died on his tongue.

Mephala grinned, sharp and wide. One end of a broken stick in each clawed hand. "Oh Champion, you don't realize how easy you made this for me." For a moment, her eyes grew hungry, and then everything went dark.

_"I was hoping for a bit more of a challenge."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made up the brewery. Pretend it was part of some mod, if accuracy is a big thing for you.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rowan's not dead yet...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy flying pancakes… thank you guys so much for following this, thus far. I'd hug you all if I could!!!
> 
> I'm going off of the brief description the internet has given me of the Spiral Skein and of what I figure its occupants could be like… feel free to give some pointers if anything is significantly off.

Mora wouldn't say he sulked, more likely he was  _incapable_  of sulking, but he did stand motionless where Rowan had left him for longer than he'd ever admit. His champion's anger was understandable and had at least dissipated by the time Rowan had left the tent. But, the Daedric Prince was no fool in knowing that significant damage had been done to what must have been a budding relationship between them.

He reached out mentally for his champion, and finding him standing nearby, he relaxed. The Daedric Prince pulled away, enough so the Nord could have his own thoughts in peace. Mora's tendrils unfurled, naturally flexing as he begun to mull over various ideas, possible plans to win back the affection he had so easily lost.

Abruptly, his concentration was shattered, and he felt the ring break similarly.

_No!_

He had only left Rowan alone for a moment. Mora broke into a frenzied run, forgetting that he could have teleported faster to where he had last felt his champion.

With labored breathing, he arrived at the empty space. His eyes flicked about the area - expecting to catch sight of what his mind already knew wasn't there. The organ in his chest stuttered, and he thought the constructed thing would give out.

From the residual magic hanging in the air, the ring had done its purpose:  _It stopped a killing blow_. Unfortunately, he couldn't say it would work a second time - Mora hadn't ever intended for there to be a first. He only hoped that when Mephala took Rowan, she was still in the mood for a few more of her games.

He hoped so, for his champion’s sake.

* * *

Rowan's eyes snapped open, and his neck gave an unwelcome throb near his right shoulder. He rubbed it, finding two distinct rows of small puncture marks. _A bite?_

He sat up fully. A different, new pain, made itself known in his hand - originating at the base of his ring finger. When Mora's ring exploded, the fragments of silver and blue had fused to his flesh. Around the site, the skin was sore and burned a horrid red. He flexed his hand, finding no damage other than the occasional twinge where the blistered skin pulled.

_He'd survive._

Pushing himself up from the rough-hewn stone, Rowan surveyed the small cavern he woke in. Recesses in the surrounding walls cradled an alien blue light, just bright enough to make out tall pillars that gave the illusion of holding up the night sky. He didn't recognize any of the constellations, and upon further study, realized it was only more of the same recessed light suspended high above.

The air was heavy and scratchy, but he found it to be more of a nuisance than a concern – unlike his brief visit to Apocrypha. He had no doubt of where he was, though he'd only heard of Mephala's realm in rumor. Regardless, the Spiral Skein was not a place Rowan wanted to stay long.

“Awake already?” asked a voice originating from on high. The fake moon shifted, its silvery hide gliding across the ceiling. Suddenly, light poured from its scales, illuminating the cavern with an icy glow, and casting deep crisscrossing shadows across the grey stone.

Squinting through his fingers, he peered up at the bright creature. “Who are you?”

There was some brief shuffling, and soon two sets of eyes were staring down at him, both sharing the same grotesquely obese abdomen. “And it speaks too?” This time the other head spoke.

The cavern was plunged back into darkness. “Go on, say something else.” It was the first voice again.

“Who are you?” Rowan repeated, less than thrilled he was being made a spectacle of.

“Boring.”

The creature twisted and the cavern relit. “Boring,” the second agreed. “All this time, and we get a nitwit.”

Darkness. “A complete ninny. Just look at him…”

Light. “So thin.”

“Just skin and bones… And that hair…”

“Like an old man's. Completely white.”

Rowan grew distracted with the back and forth bantering, glancing first to possible signs of anyone else, then to look at his own hair and body in case something had changed. His hair was still dark as ever, and though he appeared thinner in just a basic tunic and slacks, he'd hardly say he was skin and bones... _A liar then… or liars_   _as the case may be,_ he thought glancing up at the strange sun and moon mimic.

The room grew dark again. “So ugly.”

And then bright. “Simply hideous.”

 _That was getting a little rude, or was it considered polite?_  Rowan was getting confused. He wanted to get out, preferably before he went insane. “Is there a way out of here?” he shouted up at the babbling pair.

“No.”

“No.”

Came their response, the light flicking between the simulated day and night respectively.

 _Well, there was an exit somewhere,_  if their response was anything to go by. He started wandering, the nameless creature above him keeping pace with echoing clicks of sharp nails.

“Not that way.”

“You'll never get out that way.”

They offered hints, occasionally steering him back on course with whispered false encouragement. It didn't take him long to find the exit with his unexpected guide, but it was another matter completely to actually leave.

“Go.”

“Leave.”

The flashing bright and dim orb slunk closer, abandoning its place above the tall pillars.

“We don't want you here.”

“It’s so lively here without you.” The clatter of human bones underfoot indicated otherwise.

The exit was a portal of some sorts, its glow cradled in an archway of polished obsidian.

Rowan sped up his pace.

Spindly fingers reached out for him, each supported by long sinewy arms. The first desperate swipes weren't even close and he easily ducked the attempts. It became more difficult as the twin creature gradually stalked closer.

“Leave.”

“Leave.”

“Leaveleaveleaveleaveleave…”

“Leaveleaveleaveleaveleave…”

The thing had begun chanting, and the flashing between bright and dark was near enough to blind him.

The Dragonborn was close. Mere seconds from his goal, but the bulbous monstrosity was closer, nearly blocking the way with its hulking body.

Razor sharp talons grazed his arms as the Dragonborn weaved his path, shredding his sleeves and leaving long white lines that should have pierced flesh.  _Seems Mora knew what he was doing_ , Rowan reluctantly admitted as another line was drawn down his back and neatly tore his tunic open.

The thing grew frenzied, its claws pushing harder, finally drawing small beads of red. It was almost completely upon him.

He drew a breath and shouted. “Wuld nah kest.” The Thu'um carried him forward, past the shrieks and cries of the creature, and into the swirling silver of the portal.

Behind him the portal snapped closed, sealing away the monster's wails and screeches. The Dragonborn stumbled as the Shout's energy dissipated - the abrupt loss of momentum throwing off his internal balance. He had escaped, but he had undoubtedly found himself in the rumored Chambers of Envy, and already, Rowan missed the open space of the room before.

The walls were close and confining - barely a hand span between him and black jagged rocks. The ceiling was similarly tight, and it made Rowan think that the tunnel had somehow been prepared for him. With no other available path, he moved deeper in, brushing against the occasional jutting rock in the dim space. He trod only as quickly as he dared, as he wasn't sure the extent of his new-found resilience.

It didn't take long before his clothes had been fully reduced to tattered rags. The obsidian stone proved wickedly sharp and unforgiving to accidental touch. At this point, he was certain he owed Mora some form of thanks. He hadn't been disemboweled yet, though Rowan was near certain he would have been – if the vertical bruise forming a distinct purple line across his belly told as much.  _When he got out of here, he would. Definitely._  But he had no idea how soon that would be. If he were to believe the stories, there were eight chambers plus Mephala's Pillar Palace.

_He hated this damned place._

****

The third, fourth, and fifth caverns didn't prove to be any more endearing.

The first of these three was an iridescent series of grottos, their depths lined with captivating wriggling lights. Wriggling, because once the illusion of their beauty broke he discovered - and just in time to avoid a large pitfall - that the lights were maggots. Hundreds of the writhing, worm-like creatures clung to the walls, each hissing a strange warbled tune that set the embedded metal fragments in his hand alight.

The next was a tunnel completely void of light, but the strong smell of oil deterred him from using the torch set at its entrance. More than once he slipped on the slick ground, and when his hand shot out to find support, it came away wet. The first time, he brought his damp fingers to his nose and gave them a sniff. More oil. He was glad to have trusted his instincts, especially by how drenched he had become in the black viscous fluid.

The fifth, left him frustrated and confused. An unsettling sense of betrayal chased his heels, but the reason seemed to have escaped him when he left.

It was by the sixth cavern, Mephala finally decided to make an appearance - her lithe form draped over a raised throne of black metal and embossed spiders. The throne itself was nestled into a raised alcove to observe the arena he found himself in.

“I was wondering if you were going to make it.”

A spectral crowd hissed and booed from the stands, as he raised his eyes to the balcony where the Daedra sat. “Disappointed?”

The Daedra smiled, bringing a clawed hand to tap her chin contemplatively. “Impressed more like, though I suspect you've had some help…”

The ground shook, and a giant stepped into view. A hush fell over their audience. The thing wore shabbily constructed armor reminiscent of an Imperial footsoldier’s, and the twisted mockery stirred something horrid in Rowan's gut. In the hulking brute’s hand was a two-handed war hammer, which the giant carried easily over one shoulder - unhindered by its massive weight.

“Oh well,” she sighed wistfully as if she didn't just set a towering monstrosity on him.

Rowan's only weapon presented itself as he weaved through the giant's swings. A short sword, more akin to a dagger, was half buried in the grey dust. The Dragonborn wasn't going to be picky as he dove for it, wrestling the blade away from the dried husk of its previous owner. With a blade in hand, Rowan felt more confident – at least as confident one could be, as ill-prepared as he was. He ran to meet the giant, ducking under the brute's swiping fist, but it was the follow-up strike of the war hammer that hit him hard in the chest.

He felt something break as his body was thrown weightlessly across the arena. The Dragonborn landed with a heavy thud, raising a small cloud of fine dust, and he struggled to regain his footing. The ground shook as the armored giant approached, doing little to aid his attempts.

The giant towered above him, and he raised wide steel-blue eyes to follow the monster's weapon. Panic set in as Rowan watched the war hammer fall.  _He was going to die here_. He squeezed his eyes tight; Bowen couldn't save him this time.  _He was going to die._

There was a harsh familiar growl near his ear, and suddenly he felt something wrap tightly around his middle to fling him from the impending threat. The force jostled his broken ribs, forcing a shout from his lips, but it went unheard as the spectral audience focused on the newcomer.

Black ichor splattered the dirt, and the hooded newcomer crumpled to his knees from the echoing blow. The air stilled as everyone waited to see what would happen next.

Shakily, Mora stood. The fresh injury against his temple bled openly, joined by several more wounds scattered up his arms. The Daedra's once pristinely kept nails were chipped and ragged - as if he had spent the last few hours desperately clawing against sheer rock. Mora looked tired and worn, but as the Daedra faced determinedly against the giant…  _he sure as Oblivion looked the Prince he claimed to be._

“Are you alright?” the Daedric Prince asked worriedly.

“I'm fine,” Rowan answered, rising to his feet and clutching a hand around his hurting middle.

* * *

“How many times must you interfere?” Mephala's scolding voice shattered the trance Mora was under, drawing his eyes away from the wounds his champion bore.

“It is not in our wager that I protect him?”

Her crimson eyes narrowed on him. “It is… but we were in the middle of something.”

“I will champion him in his stead.”

“How ironic, that you would take up the gauntlet for your own  _champion_.”

“Then there would be no issue with me doing so?”

“None at all. But it wouldn't be the same challenge if we left it as is...” She snapped her fingers, instantly summoning a horde of Spider Daedra to fight alongside the armored giant.

Mora's eyes darted across the sudden army, and a seed of doubt rooted itself in his mind. “Surely my injuries would have proved enough of a handicap?”

Mephala leaned back regally in her throne, a smug and pleased expression plastered to her face. “Perhaps at one time, but I have a feeling you will be going all out.”

His lips drew to a thin line. It had already taken so much just to get here. “I accept your terms,” the Daedric Prince reluctantly agreed, ignoring the eyes boring a hole into the back of his head from his champion - upset that his meager pride had been injured at Mora’s interference.

The Prince of Lies and Secrets clapped her hands giddily like some excited child, her earlier poise all but forgotten. A bell tolled and she quickly announced, “You may begin.”

Chaos broke loose.

“I won’t thank you,” grumped Rowan, dodging the sweeping arch of the giant’s war hammer.

“Nor did I think you would,” responded Mora, as he lashed out at an approaching Spider Daedra with his tendrils. The thing died in a screaming, hissing mess, crushed and impaled.

He risked a glance to his champion as the Nord felled another. Rowan was doing well for a mortal, but Mora could see him beginning to weaken: of fatigue, and  _poison_.

The Daedric Prince had seen the puncture marks on Rowan's neck, and the tremors developing in his hands. The exertion wasn't doing his mortal any good, the faster blood flow only brought about the toxin's effects sooner. No doubt as Mephala intended –  _she was impatient after all._

Together they continued to fight as reluctant allies, slaying foes and continually avoiding the giant's potentially killing blows that shook the arena. But Rowan only continued to get worse, his pallor growing ever paler, his movements sloppier.  _Surely, his mortal had begun to notice something was amiss by now?_  Sadly, the stubborn Nord refused to relent.

The spear aimed for Rowan pierced Mora’s side instead, drawing a shocked look from his mortal. 

_Had Rowan really that little faith in him?_

It hurt, but the Daedric Prince could use that feeling. His true form had no shape,  _but anger, pain, frustration?_  That had shape, and a powerful one at that. “Don't watch. Don't listen,” he asked of his champion, not knowing if the Nord would actually heed his instruction.

* * *

A part of him wanted to look away, really, truthfully did. But Rowan couldn't. Not when several more Spider Daedra impaled Mora, and the giant successfully backhanded both the Daedric Prince and the Spider Daedra that clung to his robes.

Mora was sent flying through the air, his flight cut short when his back cracked against one of the eight columns holding up the ceiling. The Daedric Prince continued to lie where he had fallen, and for once, Rowan was worried for him. The black shape remained frighteningly still, Rowan all but forgotten as Mephala's horde focused in on the weakened Daedric Prince.

_Get up. Get… up!_

There was no way the Dragonborn was going to let his tormentor lay there. He turned the bloodlust pounding through his veins to the Daedra sitting above them. The Dragonborn felt dizzy, but he shrugged it off. He'd worry about that kind of thing when his life wasn't in peril. “Mephala!” he shouted, his voice ringing sharp and clear despite the turmoil.

“Relax Champion. You will have your turn.”

“Call them off.”

“Hmmm? And why would I do that?”

Rowan had to pause, his reasoning fled for a second. It was getting harder to think. “Because… you'll kill him.”

Mephala laughed, and the crowd joined her. “Oh, Champion. I may destroy his body, but that is a temporary construct. He'll be back… although perhaps a little sour when he finds you dead.”

As his eyes passed back over Mora's body, the giant ripped an arm free from its socket, and the Daedric Prince stifled a scream.  _Didn't mean that he couldn't feel any pain… no one deserves to be tortured like that. Not even Mora._

“Stop them. It… it's me you’re after.” He winced when Mora let out another scream.

“How noble… Noble but foolish.” A flick of her claws and her minions turned to him, their eyes aglow with fiendish delight.

His eyes met Mora's for a brief glimmer, and he swore he saw the first signs of true alarm on the Daedric Prince’s face.

* * *

 _Not yet… not yet…_  He needed more. More pain, more anger.

“Stop them. It… it's me you're after,” Mora heard his champion shout. His heart dropped to his stomach even as a hole was punched through it.

Mephala's pets turned away from him and his mind screamed - even more than what the beasts could pull from him.

_More… more… He still needed more..._

Mora forced his remaining arm under him, but he had no strength to raise himself up. The Daedric Prince tried with his tendrils, but they moved sluggishly, and in no way how he wanted. 

 _Why were mortal bodies so weak? A few missing organs and nothing worked…_  

He felt so useless, so  _frustrated_  at his own weakness as he was forced to watch in rapt horror. Mephala's pets closed in on Rowan, blocking his mortal from sight. She would win, while he was helpless to do anything... it was so  _frustrating._

* * *

The Dragonborn heard a shout: a primal cry of anguish that shook him to his core, and he wasn't the only one to hear it. Many of his would-be attackers backed off, their eyes darting to the source of the noise. Only the giant remained unfazed for long, raising the steel war hammer to bring it smashing down.

There was a crunching squelch, and suddenly the giant had no arms, nor an upper torso. The Spider Daedra surrounding what remained of the giant squealed and fled a fair distance to observe their new adversary.

A great serpent floated overhead. Sharp dagger-thin teeth - as long as his arm - protruded from the ancient beast's maw, grinding and gnashing against each other. Thick tendrils hung from its scaley black-green hide, and bright yellow eyes glowed along its entire sides, twisting and turning in their sockets until they spied him.

Rowan froze under the thing's gaze, even as every fiber of his being screamed at him to run. The monster coiled around him, and a small instinctual part of his mind shrieked that he had been trapped. A deeper terror flooded his mind, locking his limbs in place. Its tendrils lifted hesitantly to touch him, their touch careful yet curious. He shivered but felt no malice as the beast stretched out to deal with the Spider Daedra who had regained their wits and had begun attacking in greater numbers.

Mephala looked downright furious, her calm demeanor all but shattered as her Spider Daedra proceeded to flood the arena to protect their master from the serpentine threat.

Right and left the Spider Daedra were felled, many devoured by the enormous creature that refused to let Rowan out of its sight, nor allow him to step forward and join the fray when the Spider Daedras' vast numbers dwindled.

But their victory wasn't to last.

Rowan's vision swam, and it was like someone had set fire to his bones. 

 _Wha…_  

A pain bloomed at his throat, expanding from the punctures on his neck. Rowan collapsed. His body shook uncontrollably and he clawed uselessly against the ground.

* * *

Mora turned, his multitude of eyes following Rowan’s fall in painfully acute detail. Cataloging everything for later, regardless of whether he wanted that information recorded.

The mortal struggled to keep his eyes focused, and a pained sweat dappled his forehead and back. Weak twitches assaulted his body, but at least they weren't like the convulsions of earlier.  _As long as Rowan could stay awake, he had time…_

His massive form shifted, returning to the mortal flesh he had begun to feel as his own. He was still bleeding - his change could only repair so much damage - and a certain weakness still tainted his actions.

Despite the previous grievance Mephala had of his transformation, she was entertained by the sudden change in play, and her Spider Daedra slowed their approach in response. “Have you a change in heart Mora? Will you step aside and let me end this thing between us?”

“Nay, I have another wager.”

“Oh. Do share.”

“You know of the conditions to making a mortal immortal?”

“Of course. We all do. But your champion does not wish for our gift. After all, the living cannot enter Sovngarde so freely. Would you deny him this boon for all eternity?”

“I would seek to save him,” Mora corrected.

“And yet, should the process fail,” her eyes sparkled with a mischievous glee, “you'd kill him with your own hands.” She leaned back into her throne, her Spider Daedra hissing and shrieking as they reluctantly retreated. “I shall not stop you from trying. There would be a certain...  _poetics_  to your failure.”

Mora turned to where his champion lay. The Nord was unnervingly still, and Mora's temporary heart lurched in his chest.  _The blasted organ was going to be the end of him._ With a hopeful touch, he roused Rowan. His champion recoiled from Mora's touch and squirmed against Mora's hands pulling his body closer to cradle him.

“My rucksack… the crimson vial.” Rowan's voice was barely more than a whisper.

The Daedric Prince of Knowledge smiled sadly. His champion was far beyond the workings of a health potion or two. He could already recognize the symptoms of Mephala's venom ravaging Rowan's weakened body. There was only so much the Nord's bodily enhancements could do to stave off its effects. “Rowan, it won't… you are too far gone… I can still save you, but… you must trust me.”

Rowan let out a shuddering laugh. “Then trust... me. Bring me the damn po-” A coughing fit cut him off, his hand came away with streaks of crimson.

They both looked at the blood and knew it wasn't good.

“Even if I gave you your potion, your body cannot outlast the poison's full duration.”

“Watch me…”

“You're in shock. You're not thinking clearly,” Mora said, speaking mainly to himself. Even at death's door, he couldn't get his stubborn mortal to listen to him, and that stubbornness was going to get Rowan killed. Mora would just have to risk the process without permission,  _even if it did significantly lower the odds of success._

There was some small murmur, of agreement or altercation, Mora wasn't sure. Rowan twisted once more in Mora's arms, his instincts to get away from the pain overriding any remaining sense, but even those motions had none of the strength of earlier. _If Mora was going to save him, he needed to act now._

"Hermaeus Mora," Mephala shouted after his departing form. "If you succeed, he'll hate you for it."

Mora gazed down at the barely conscious Nord in his arms. Rowan's strength was almost completely gone - he was no longer struggling against Mora's hold.  _The mortal already hated him. It wouldn't be anything new._

"Mora!" came Mephala's voice again, this time sounding more resigned. "The next Dragonborn is mine, you can't hog them all!"

He left Mephala’s realm through an opened portal.

* * *

Rowan rubbed where his left eye used to be. The makeshift eyepatch itched, but it was better than the stares he got for the unusual yellow-green replacement. He barely remembered what happened after Mora  _saved_  him; his memories from that time only continued to elude him and perhaps it was for the better. The things he does remember are hazy and only come to him in fractured pieces, accompanied by pain and the stench of blood.

****

_He's surrounded by the cloying smell of Apocrypha. Looming black walls thrum with an ancient beat - one so reminiscent of a heart's. He sees Mora the whole time, the Daedric Prince stepping quickly toward some unknown destination, sparing him a worried glance often._

_Rowan’s laid out on a smooth surface, the remaining heat in his broken body wicked away by its cold touch. He shivers, but in the state he's in, it isn't anything more than the occasional twitch._

_Mora is hovering in and out of his peripheral, doing who knows what. Rowan’s eyes slide closed once or twice, and each time he’s shaken roughly until he opens them again._

_A hand slides under his head to lift his lips to a stone bowl. He splutters and chokes against the black liquid, refusing to drink it down, but the hands that hold him are insistent and he drinks eventually. A dull throb starts at the base of his skull, and he can feel something caressing the side of his face. Its touch is hesitant as it pushes up against his left eye._

_The pressure builds and he thinks he screams before finally blacking out; waking in his home to the Daedric Prince nowhere in sight._

_He had been abandoned. Thrown aside like a gambling token the moment Mora won his bet._

****

The cart bounced over a loose stone, and the wide-eyed girl that had been staring at him toppled forward. His arms went wide, and he caught the small thing.

She pulled away embarrassed and hid beside her brother seated on the bench opposite, an equally guilty expression on his face for watching Rowan so intently up till now. A look was shared between the two, and it was the boy who spoke first. “How’d you get that?” he asked, pointing with a chubby finger to the strip of rough linen wrapped about the left side of the Dragonborn’s face.

Rowan chuckled and leaned in close. The children leaned in to - both first casting a furtive glance to their mother feigning disinterest. “A dragon.” He lied, but it was one the children ate up eagerly, asking him further questions about ‘how big it was’, ‘do they really breathe fire’, and so forth. He answered each the best he could, spinning each added lie so well he caught the driver leaning back to listen in.

****

The cart rolled up to the gates of Markarth, and Rowan was stopped by the grizzled driver as the rest of the passengers went their own way. “That was some swell story you told them young’ens. Any part of it actually true?”

“Not a lick of it,” the Dragonborn answered.

The driver gave a hearty guffaw. “I thought there’d be at least a little truth there. Let me guess, a bandit. Them's pretty awful these days, what with the war and all still going on.”

Rowan slung his rucksack over a shoulder. “Something like that,” he agreed, not wanting to fill in the details as he turned to the stone city. "Something like that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I based Mora's transformation on a deep sea dragonfish. 
> 
> For those of you who want a bitter sweet ending I recommend stopping here… the next chapter is full of feels and fluff and things.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sanguine's a little upset how things were left after Mora won the bet. What better way to get two stubborn fools together, than a little liquid encouragement (less alcohol and more special brand of Daedra magic)?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wonder how many of you share Sanguine's sentiments…
> 
> Oh, sweet cheese and crackers… this chapter ended up being way longer than I thought it was gonna be o_O I was super tempted on splitting it up when I hit 7k words, but I promised there was only gonna be one more chapter, so here it is.

“This is so boring. You are so boring,” whined Sanguine. “You can't let it end this way.”

Mora floated above – his lesser form shed as he had no longer a need for it… 

_It made him feel far too much anyway._

Even now, he was still busy purging its weakness from his soul. “I hardly understand your concern. Have I not met your conditions? Mephala's brand is no longer upon him. You are free to your fun, so let me be.”

“So you wouldn't care?”

“Why would I?”

Sanguine paced the edge of a particularly large pool of acid. He stopped and raised an eyebrow. “You would have no qualms if I visited; decided on a little  _fraternizing_ while I’m there...” The other Daedric Prince crossed his arms, shifting his weight side-to-side as he waited for a response.

A lazy bubble drifted to the surface of the pool – its popping the only thing sounding in the stillness. “Who he chooses to lay with is none of my concern, and who  _you_ choose to lay with is even less.”

Sanguine groaned, dragging both hands down the front of his face and stretching out his bored expression. “This is why you're so stupidly boring. How am I supposed to get into a potentially mind-bending threesome if you two aren't even on speaking terms anymore?”

“Find someone else to coherence into your exploits. I have lost interest in the mortal.”

The other Daedra peeked through his fingers up at the mass of floating eyes and tentacles, his own dark eyes catching the occasional glimpse of ice-blue coddled amid the sea of yellow-green staring him down. “Are you so certain of that?” He wiggled his fingers and pulled a glass bottle out of the air. “So, this should do absolutely nothing to you? You should retain intellect over instinct?”

“What are you-“ Mora was cut off by a sudden uttered ‘whoops’ as the vial went soaring – tossed very purposefully by the now smirking Prince of Debauchery. Mora's eyes widened as he realized what it was, and his tendrils whipped out to try and catch the bottle. The deceptively thin glass shattered on impact, splashing the vibrant yellow potion over his tendrils and into the nearby pool. “Sanguine!” he howled as he turned his tendrils towards the other Daedra. They were already starting to not respond properly, and both knew it would only worsen in the coming hours.

“Don't worry Hermaeus Mora; after all, you have no interest… though, I mean if you  _lied_ … well, the next 24 hours should prove interesting.” The other Daedric Prince had the nerve to wave as he retreated through a conjured portal, disappearing before Mora could strangle the living daylights out of him.

* * *

_"You might be the last Dragonborn, but don't you dare show up in Sovengarde again without dying first. I want to hear how my brother lived his life to the damned fullest!” Bowen holds out his hand and Rowan tries to take it in his._

_Rowan's hand falls through his brother's grip as Bowen's did likewise. Both had momentarily forgotten their living statuses._

_“Looks like no more secret handshakes for a while,” Rowan jokes, trying to alleviate the sudden dip in mood._

_Bowen gives a weak chuckle. “I don't mind waiting. Just don't make me wait too long, yeah?”_

****

Woken by a sudden throb in his inhuman eye, Rowan stretched and slid his feet over the edge of the stone bed.

Stone wasn't the most comfortable surface to sleep on – as he had long discovered – but with his new unwieldy strength, it was one of the few materials that didn't self-destruct in his grip; a tankard from the local tavern being the most recent victim.

Sighing, he replayed the memory over in his head.  _Sorry, Bowen,_ he thought forlornly.  _Looks like you'll be waiting a lot longer than we both thought…_

The sun, streaming through well-placed holes in the surrounding walls, told him it was morning. _A good a time as any to be up and about._

He rose from the bed.

Staggering slightly, he made his way to the nearby water basin. The yellow-green orb stared back at him through the still water, its horizontal pupil blown wide for some unknown reason. For the second time that morning, Rowan could only sigh. _Just more weirdness he'd have to get used to._

He finished washing up and dried his hands on a small square of cloth. Retrieving the cut leather eyepatch, Rowan affixed it over his left eye and gave it a quick tug to ensure the knot held. He then slipped on a fresh change of clothes and his well-worn boots, and made for the entranceway.

The door was stiff, and he briefly thought someone had piled boxes outside of again. There was a loud creak as the door finally swung out.

He stumbled through.

When Heljarchen Hall greeted him instead of the streets of Markarth, he quickly pivoted only to slam into a different wooden door – this one heavily bolted with what appeared to be rose vines. Rowan gave the iron handles a definitive tug, but the double doors wouldn't budge regardless of how much strength he put into it.

_Odd._

His suspicions immediately went to the Daedric variety. “Mora?” The rose vines weren't necessarily Mora's, but any Daedra visiting him would likely make the correction regardless of which name he guessed. When he received no response, he tried again. “Hello? I know one of you Daedra bastards brought me here.”

Rowan was rewarded with a small noise. A small whine accompanied by a strong scent he couldn't place. He wasn't prepared for either, and his cock gave a sudden twinge of interest as his left eye gave him a reminding throb – less painful and more insistent that he move further in.

Small tendrils spider-webbed across the floor, parting just enough to let him walk forward without stepping on them; and, just as swiftly, they closed behind him to seal his retreat.

The main hall had been redecorated in his absence – the large dining table, the scene of a battle, bore unfamiliar scratches and spiraling grooves. Fat oily tendrils pulsed over the Hall's wooden walls, while the smaller tendrils continued to the second level of his old home – even thicker than they had on the ground floor.

The Dragonborn followed the distant muffled grunts and sounds of pained pleasure, making careful progress towards the stairs where they were louder. The heavy scent that enticed him at the entrance grew stronger the closer he drew to his bedroom, and he cupped a hand over his nose and mouth to try and mute the smell.

The sight of Mora curled tightly on him…  _her_ …  _himself_ was not one Rowan was expecting.

Mora's usual sickly-green complexion was flushed a dark hue as the Daedric Prince's shape couldn't decide whether it wanted to be male or female. His-  _her_ fists clenched around his bedsheets as a thick tendril fucked in and out of her,  _suddenly his_ , backside, presented temptingly before the Dragonborn. A scrap of cloth – revealed to be one of Rowan's old tunics he had left behind – was pressed tightly to the Daedric Prince's nose, and Rowan could see Mora's body shudder with every intake of breath as he,  _now she_ , rutted against the sheets.

The Dragonborn’s cock jumped at the display, pressing hard against the inside of his trousers and threatening to leave a wet stain. Rowan turned and gave a slight cough to try and catch the Daedric Prince's attention, feeling very much like an unintentional voyeur.

Suddenly, thousands of yellow-green eyes were upon him, many snapping open upon the thick black bands that spanned the building’s roof and walls. Mora's gender-swapping settled almost instantly.

The Daedric Prince twisted to face him. Panic only briefly painting Mora's euphoria before something else flitted across that crown of eyes.  _Pride_ , Rowan guessed as Mora pulled reluctantly from the bed. The tendril slipped free with an obscene pop, and his robe slid back into place to hide his very painfully erect member.

Had Rowan not just witnessed the earlier wanton display, nor been able to place the heady scent of want still radiating from the Daedric Prince, he would have assumed nothing of Mora's annoyed countenance. The tendrils wrapping tightly around the Dragonborn's legs were the only indication something else was going on, and Mora cast them a withering glare for the betrayal.

“Champion,” the Daedric Prince managed, his voice cracking as he rolled the fabric of the old tunic between his fingers. “I had thought you gone from this place.”

* * *

His champion stood there dumbly, not giving him a response. Each moment was agony as heat continued to sear through his body, made worse by proximity to his lust’s true interest. He had hoped to pass this affliction unnoticed,  _but…_

“I was. I'm not here by choice. Believe me...” His mortal sounded tired, resigned to whatever fate was in store.

 _Then…?_ His answer came swiftly.  _Sanguine…_ His mind reeled.  _Was it not enough he had to face this humiliation alone? He now had to face it **with** Rowan? _The Daedric Prince silently seethed. His revenge was going to be a swift and terrible one.

“I… see. It was not my intention to bring you here.” He waved a hand just as another wave of arousal was forced upon him. It choked out his magic and the portal he had tried to summon sputtered closed. His legs gave out, but he didn't hit the floor as he thought he would.

Rowan's arms had wrapped around him, and the Nord looked just as startled by his actions as Mora was. Mora's nostrils flared as he caught Rowan's earthy scent – one of pine needles, forge fire, and cured leather. It was different from before, but somehow more  _satisfying,_ more  _reassuring_ _…_

 _MINE…_ his desire whispered.

“Mora?” His champion’s voice was enough to pull him from his reverie.

With a shove, Mora separated himself from Rowan. “What? What is it?” he snapped, a part of himself already craving to be back in that embrace.

“Are you alright?”

_Absolutely not!_

“Of course. Why do you ask?” It was difficult, but he managed to keep his tone indignant.

“You collapsed… just now… and uhhh…” Rowan cleared his throat and tried to stare at a point not covered in eyes. “The thing…  _earlier_ …”

_Why was he talking? Couldn't he tell how much Mora needed him right now? How could Rowan not know?_

The Daedric Prince froze, his thoughts were becoming a jumbled mess.  _He could still… control… this… He… could contain… this torment…_ “It is none of your concern… I was… leaving anyway.” He tried to summon a portal again, only to be thwarted as Sanguine's thorns squeezed him, urging another pang of arousal to electrify his nerves. He could feel the thorny vines crawling across his skin, over his shoulders, curling around his limbs and throat like puppet wires.

Mora refused to be controlled by his desires.

He forced his way through the tantalizing sensations and could feel the slowly developing tear between the realms...

“Shor's bones!” His champion shouted, doubling over. One hand clutched his covered eye while the other palmed his crotch with a sudden, desperate need of release.

Mora's concentration shattered instantly at the sight. His reasoning pushed over the edge as he felt one of Sanguine's roses blossom.

* * *

When the Daedric Prince jumped him, his body was still trying to comprehend the abrupt pleasure tingling across his senses.

Both bodies fell onto the bed, Mora pinning Rowan beneath him.

“Mora? Wha- Hey!” Rowan's protests went ignored, the Daedric Prince more intent on nuzzling into his throat.

Sharp teeth played along the vulnerable flesh, and despite the Dragonborn’s immortality, it halted any further complaints he might have made.

Feeling the humid warmth of parting lips, his battle-honed instincts overrode the momentary paralysis. He's had one too many close encounters with vampires, to not know what was about to happen. “No, you don't!” the Dragonborn shouted, managing to push the Daedric Prince off as jaws came snapping shut where his neck had been. He wasn't sure how'd he heal, should his jugular be torn out.

With the click of inhumanely sharp teeth, Mora fell back. Agitation marked his actions. “I don't…” mumbled Mora, looking weirdly distraught. “I had thought…”

Rowan edged himself away, but the headboard prevented any real form of retreat.  _Something was seriously wrong._ He knew Mora had been teasingly pushy in the past, some times worse than others, but this seemed different from that. Something more desperate. More…  _instinctual_. The Dragonborn held up a hand as if calming a wild animal, and managed to get his legs beneath him in a low crouch. He spoke softly. “Mora…”

The Daedric Prince’s head snapped up.

“What is going on?” Rowan eyed Mora carefully for a response, and when one was not forthcoming, he searched for one: Black lines ran along the sharp contours of the Daedric Prince’s form, disappearing beneath his robe.

As he started reaching out for Mora's hood, the Daedric Prince scuttled back, fighting between leaning into Rowan's touch and fleeing it. Eventually, some decision was made, and Mora allowed his hood to be pulled back.

The Dragonborn's mouth fell open a little as he found more than just simple tattooing. The black lines wound further down Mora's lithe body, sharp drawn points jutting from their edges to give the appearance of thorns. The Daedric Prince hissed where Rowan accidentally touched his flesh, and the tattooed vines twisted in kind.

Rowan tried to be more careful as he continued to follow the lines further, noting they grew in frequency the closer to the Daedric Prince’s torso he traveled. On his back bloomed a black rose, the edges of its petals a darkened red.

_It definitely wasn't Mora's signature, whatever it was…_

* * *

Mora had managed to regain some semblance of his sanity when Rowan pushed him off, stopping the Daedric Prince from creating his bonding mark on the Nord's flesh. _He’d never live down the humility if he had successfully managed to mark his champion - if he could even in the first place._ It did, however, take every ounce of his discipline to not try again, to stay still as Rowan followed Sanguine's thorns across his body.

 _If that had been the effect of one rose blooming…_ he dared not think of what could occur should his reason flee completely. Of what mortifying display his repressed instincts could conjure up.

“Who did this?” the Nord asked.

Mora didn't know if Rowan was aware of what he was doing when his sword-calloused fingers skated over his back, or of how his close breath sent shivers up his spine. It was slowly eroding any sort of control he still maintained.

_He was going to kill Sanguine for this. Several. Times. Over._

“Sanguine,” Mora ground out between shuddering breaths, suppressing the urge to just ravish Rowan then and there. To take and be taken in the same instance.

His champion leaned away, taking his warmth with him. Mora nearly keened at the loss, but he successfully held his tongue.

Something in the background creaked, eventually cracking in two. Rowan looked from the broken remains of a cabinet to the tendril escaping the wooden fragments, then back to Mora. There was a question behind his expression, but Rowan chose to bring the conversation back to Sanguine instead.

“The Prince of Debauchery? What did you do to get under his skin?” Rowan asked with sincere curiosity.

But, Mora was less willing to divulge, especially considering that Rowan was the reason Sanguine used the loathsome potion in the first place. “Nothing. I have done nothing.”

“Exactly,” came the exclamation of one  _very_ uninvited Daedric Prince in the barest whisper.

“You are not welcome here,” snarled Mora under his breath – hopefully unheard by the Nord. His tendrils sought out the intruder. It was easier to block out his want when he had a focus for his wrath.

“It would be _easier_ if you just confess, you know? End this whole thing early. I wouldn't even be mad about it.” This time, Sanguine's voice sounded from the main floor. “It's been what, four hours now and only  _one_ flower bloomed? Yeesh, you’re killing me here.”

 _Not yet anyway,_ Mora internally fumed.  _His champion didn't need to hear any of this prattle._ His tendrils searched for the source of his rage, crushing whatever they grasped in a vice grip.

They closed on nothing, save an empty chair.

“Whoops, almost got me with that one… no need for violence,” Sanguine chided, sounding way too chipper for his own good. “How about something to lighten your sour mood?”

A snap of fingers and Mora felt fresh heat spread from a spot on his shoulder, the blackened bud set there, coerced into an early bloom. Arousal poured unhindered, and Mora curled tightly as it burned through his system, his shoulders shaking. He could feel himself slipping again…  _he had… to… hold…_

The thought went unfinished.

His nostrils flared and he was soothed slightly by the aroused scent of his unmarked  _mate_ close by, yet... there was another.  _A threat,_   _something that would challenge him. Would steal his prize away._ He growled, earning a startled jolt from his mate.

“Mora?”

_His mate was calling him…_

“Oh, yes Mora.” The unwanted voice was closer, and he turned on it. His tendrils lashed out at thin air. 

_He had to protect…_

Movement brought his gaze back to his mate, and to the challenger sitting far too close along the headboard. “I can tell how much you want him… just look at how many more bloomed with just a little push.” A clawed finger traced up the side of his mate's face, the Nord hardly reacting to the motions.

_How dare this **pest** touch what is his…_

Mora pounced, dragging his mate away from the  _thing_ that had vanished just mere seconds ago. He huffed lightly, the air pushed in a short burst from his nose to dispel the unpleasant odor that lingered.

 _Safe_.

He turned his attention back to his mate. The Nord was stronger now, and Mora could feel resistance as he tried to remain in place. _But it was no problem._ His mate only had four limbs.  _He_  had hundreds…

* * *

Rowan reeled from the sudden wake of pleasure that shot straight to his cock. It had to be because of his damned eye.  _Mora's damned eye._ He was done pretending it wasn't.

_If he was getting just a sample of what Mora was feeling…_

The Daedric Prince growled, _actually_ growled. A reverberating sound that startled Rowan from his pondering.

“Mora?” Rowan was used to some weirdness from the Daedric Prince, but even attacking thin air had to be drawing a line somewhere.  _This wasn't Mora._   _Couldn't be Mora. Where was the snarky, disciplined Daedric Prince he'd… he'd…_ Rowan let his thoughts trail away. He wasn't going to admit it – even to himself.

The yellow-green eyes snapped to his, then to something over his shoulder.

He still saw nothing.

Suddenly, he was dragged to the floor – a much less comfortable position than earlier. _He was getting a little sick and tired of being on the bottom for these sorts of things._

“Get… off.” Rowan pushed at the Daedric Prince, but Mora seemed out of sorts, not even acknowledging that he had said something.

The Dragonborn managed to shift Mora somewhat from his perch – not that Rowan's success was long-lasting.

Tendrils reached out to grab his arms, and each ounce of resistance he put forth was met with another tendril wrapping around his limbs – to have him eventually completely immobilized. Pawing fingers rucked up his shirt, revealing the expanse of muscle, and a warm, moist tongue licked a stripe up his stomach.

“Mor-“

“Mine… Mine. Mine. Mine.” The Daedric Prince interrupted, pressing more kisses to Rowan's hips. “My-“

Rowan managed to wriggle a hand free just in time to save his pants from being yanked down by greedy hands. “Your champion… I know. You  _won_ exclusivity…”  _Then cast me aside…_

“No. No.” Mora whined, burrowing into his chest. “ _Saved_ …” The Daedric Prince’s voice trailed off into another series of muffled ‘mine’s, ending with a purred ‘mate’.

Rowan almost lost his grip on his pants.  _He must have heard wrong._ He swallowed thickly and wet his lips. “Mate?”

“Yessss. All mine. My beautiful  _mate_...” Mora's lips were already back at his throat, and with only one hand free, Rowan had to decide between protecting his decorum or his neck.

Protecting his neck won out.

He could feel tiny puffs of breath where Mora was scenting him, displeased whatever he was about to do went interrupted.

Whimpering, unbecoming of the Daedric Prince, met Rowan's ears as deceptively hungry eyes bored holes through his hand. For now, his slacks remained forgotten; Mora's attention completely focused on the patch of skin he was hiding.

“Please…” the Daedric Prince whispered, mouthing over Rowan’s fingers. “Let me…”

“Let you what, Mora? I need to know what you're getting me into.”

“Let me… let me mark you…” he mewled between breathy pants. “To let them  _all_ know…”

Rowan let out a nervous chuckle – with more emphasis on the nervous bit and less on any real mirth. “I'm pretty sure you already did that… what with the Daedric eye and all.” Still, he refused to move his hand, despite the insistent touches.

Mora pulled away slightly and cocked his head to one side. Inquisitive tendrils prodded around his eyepatch, before removing the leather completely. Soft touches trailed over the inhuman eye, and Rowan had to fight himself to not flinch as a tendril twisted in his peripheral.

“Not… same.” The hands moved back to his own still guarding the seemingly titillating bit of skin on his neck, but the Daedric Prince hadn't dismissed the Dragonborn's eye entirely. A pleased smile was plastered on Mora's face as the Daedric Prince rubbed up against Rowan’s cheek. “Please…?” Womanly soft features peered up at him through luscious eyelashes, and he felt supple curves pressing up against him. “For me? It would make me feel _sooo_ much better.”

_What had Sanguine done to hi- her?_

Mora was unnaturally impassioned, and it felt like Rowan would be doing something horrible if he took advantage – and that was before the whole needing to ‘mark him’ thing popped up. “No. Mora… We need to stop. I... can't take this any further with you like this.”

Mora’s mood instantly shifted. Her initial bewilderment changed quickly into furor. The Hall groaned as the tendrils lining it thrashed wildly, and the ones still wrapped around Rowan’s arms tightened painfully until he felt his bones creaking. “No no no no!” the Daedra shrieked, her body rapidly changing back to a man.

More tendrils ripped Rowan's hand away from his throat, but the action was more to restrain than grant access – Mora's attention was no longer directly fixated on it.

Unkind tendrils wrapped around Rowan's thighs, lifting him into the air, and with the flick of a razor-tipped tendril, his pants were cut open; the ruined fabric tugged back roughly. The Daedra’s robe slipped open to reveal Mora's own length, flushed dark and weeping. He rose to position himself at Rowan's entrance, uncaring of the Dragonborn's protests.

Rowan felt the blunt tip tease the cleft of his ass.  _This… this was wrong…_ It wouldn't be like before where he had simply been dreaming.  _This was unbridled reality._ He tugged desperately at his bindings, but the relentless black tendrils only constricted further.

“Why? When I need you so much? When I would give you everything?” the Daedra asked, his fingers digging hard into Rowan’s hips as his cock caught the rim of Rowan's  _very_ unprepared hole. “When I…  _love_ you…” Mora stilled just as Rowan braced himself for that tearing sear.

Two things happened in the next moment. The first was a slow, horrified realization dawning on Mora's face; the second was Rowan's instantaneous release.

Rowan landed with a heavy thump, groaning slightly as he recovered from the air being punched from his lungs – his brain not yet catching up with what he just heard Mora profess.

In front of him, the Daedric Prince staggered back with wide eyes, eventually bumping into the far wall. His robes quickly reformed around him, but there remained a disheveled look about them. Mora looked like he was waiting for the ground to swallow him whole.

* * *

Sanguine’s fading magic did little to ease the mortification that filled Mora’s entire being. He had lost discipline, was forced to act on instinct… And worst of all, he had… _confessed,_ albeit not how he was going to. _If_ he was ever going to.

 _Now that it was out in the open?_ The Daedric Prince wasn’t going to remain to hear Rowan’s undoubtedly scathing rejection.

No longer hindered by Sanguine's thorns, he willed a portal open and stepped through, ignoring Rowan calling out his name as the Nord struggled to sit upright. The portal snapped closed sealing off any further sounds, and the Daedric Prince sighed with mild respite. He shed his mortal skin, grateful he no longer had to feel the heartbreak.

* * *

 _Did he just…_ Rowan just sat there, staring dumbly at where Mora disappeared. When nothing happened in the following minutes, he gave up waiting for the Daedric Prince to return. It became clear that Mora wasn't going to – at least on his own.

With one hand, he pushed to his feet – the other occupied with holding up what remained of his pants. He shuffled to his library and began scanning through to find his own Black Book. He'd need the thing to get into Apocrypha, though he had to be in Solstheim for the magic to work. When his eyes darted over the last of the books, still not finding the title he was looking for, he frowned and started again. The second time didn't prove any more fruitful, nor did the third, or fourth.

_Of all the blasted…_

Mora had stolen the book back. Whether, through some petty whim or whatever else have you, ‘Waking Dreams' was simply not on his shelf. 

Rowan ran an irritated hand through his hair.

He was already dreading the trip back to Solstheim, but he knew there wasn't a better alternative. A few added stops to his journey was just making the whole thing more unappealing. 

 _But he'd be damned for not responding to a confession. Especially_ when the feelings involved were strangely _, and very reluctantly,_ mutual _._

First thing though, was to get a change of pants. The overzealous Daedra had assuredly ruined them. The next was to pack and try to arrange passage, however much the thought of stepping on a boat again made him nauseous.

****

The giant mushroom tower lay ahead, basked in the silver and red hues of the twin moons overhead. He marched up to Tel Mithryn's front door and rapped on the wood harshly. Talvas Fathryon answered by the fifth knock, a deep-set scowl on his ashen face.

“This better be important,” the Dunmer grumped, opening the door fully so Rowan could enter. “Master Neloth is upstairs as usual.”

He thanked the apprentice and slipped by, stepping on the markings that would quickly levitate him to the top floor.

The Telvanni wizard had his back to him and was arms deep in dissecting a spriggan.

“I hope I'm not interrupting…” said Rowan.

“And yet, you always are,” replied Neloth. “Well, you're not dead. I gather something was worked out, though, from the eyepatch, I gather you didn't go completely unscathed.”

“It… Look, do you know where any of the other Black Books are? I need to talk to Mora.”

“You come here in the late of night to ask if I know where any of the lost books of  _nearly_ infinite knowledge are, merely want to use it as a communication device?” The Dunmer turned looking amused, and not at all annoyed like his gruff tone suggested.

Rowan was a little less amused. “The one I had, went…  _missing_ … I need another. Can you help?” He spoke with clipped tones, his patience with one stubborn Daedric Prince having used up all he had to spare.

“You make it sound like these things grow on trees… but yes, I do know the location of one. Fortunately for you, it isn't too far from here.”

“Great.”

****

Apparently, ‘isn't too far', equated to at least being on the same bloody island. The location the Dragonborn was sent to was Benkongerike: a cave to the far north, just shy of the island’s frozen coastline. Its depths were plagued by the small tribal Rieklings – as Rowan had the luck of finding out.

A few spear stabs and a harrowing near-disembowelment from a bristleback’s tusks later, he made it through to the cavern's depths. Rowan walked by the word wall, its etched stone echoing its secret powers as he passed. 

 _Perhaps later_.

Scouring the area, he discovered a grown-over passageway at the top of a collapsed pillar.

The Black Book stood alone and forgotten by the world beyond. Its black cover embossed with the recognizable amorphous shape of tentacles and crab claws. His fingers ran up its spine, smoothing over the raised lettering. ‘Untold Legends’ it read, and he found it strangely fitting.

He flipped the book open, barely skimming over the words written in its preface. Its magic seemed hesitant to touch him, as if it could sense his true intentions, but eventually the tendrils wrapped around his non-resisting limbs to draw him into Apocrypha.

_Rowan had a few things on his mind he'd like to share…_

****

Apocrypha greeted him with little fanfare. Its twisting labyrinth untouched and eager to be explored.

But, it wasn't why Rowan was here.

“Mora!” he shouted up to the clouded green sky above.

There was a distant rumble and the thick air stilled. Ahead of him, the labyrinth unwound, leaving a short path to the book's end.

_So that's how the Daedric Prince wants to play this?_

He stalked to the edge of the black, grated path and started stripping down to his loincloth. It didn't matter that his clothes and armor in the waking world would be untouched by Mora's acid. It was more the principle of the thing. The loincloth was for whatever dignity still remained.

The Dragonborn gripped the edge firmly, then slipped into the black-green slime. It burned where it touched his skin, but with his recently acquired immortality, Rowan had little to fear from long exposure. Ready to take the long haul on things, he nestled in as best he could despite the unwelcoming discomfort.

Last time, Mora had could see his thoughts when he did this.  _Time to see if that still held true._

He reached deep, first thinking of how they met and his overall objection to being called Champion. His thoughts eventually shifted, working towards the awkward affections between them. Rowan didn't try to hide anything, just let his feelings and emotions spill forth, and when even that didn't garner any response, he grew more…  _creative._

His thoughts moved from truth to fantasy. To pliable green skin beneath his fingers and of the smell of ink and worn pages in his nose. Of white hair veiling their expressions from the world around them, and of how sweetly Mora tasted when their lips touched. Rowan thought to how warm the Daedric Prince felt to his skin, how soft Mora's touches were, and how blissfully bruising they could be if left to carnal desire. Of how far, given the chance, Rowan would go just see how Mora could be undone both beneath him,  _and_ above.

The air crinkled, and Rowan grinned devilishly. The last bit about what he could do with his tongue certainly got some attention.

“What are you doing here?” questioned a droning voice from above. There was a hopefulness underlying Mora's tone, and Rowan prayed that he hadn't just imagined it.

_Things could get very awkward otherwise._

“Oh, you know just sightseeing. Thought I'd drop by while I was in the area. You?” he asked brazenly, knowing full well Apocrypha was Mora's domain.

“This is my realm…” Mora replied unsure of how else to answer such an obvious question.

The Dragonborn just nodded his head contemplatively, relaxing a bit more now that he had gotten used to the prickling sensations. “The funny thing is, I've been looking for someone. A certain someone who almost quite literally left me hanging after a certain  _confession_. The same someone who snagged an incredibly rare original I owned, and essentially made me travel all across Solstheim just to see their sorry face again. You wouldn't happen to know who I'm talking about, would you Mora?”

Mora shifted, his many eyes looking anywhere but at Rowan. “No…” A blatant lie.

“Are you sure? Because I have a few words I wanted to say.” He quickly emptied his mind, preventing the Daedric Prince from peeking too early.

Mora seemed to notice, and a few curious eyes swiveled back to him.

Rowan had to clear his throat for the next bit, the words seemingly caught in his throat. “It just so happened that I guess in some way I…  _loved_ that dumb idiot, but they fled before I could reciprocate. Do you have  _any_ idea of how frustrating that is?”

“I… wouldn't… know…” The giant mass of tendrils looked strangely small as Mora's eyes continued to blink in and out of existence.

Nothing happened for a long time. A _very_ long time.

With maybe just a hint of disappointment at the lack of interest on the Daedric Prince's part, Rowan hauled himself upright. “Well, that's all I wanted to say.” He turned back to the oily black platform only to be stopped by something wrapping around his ankle. From its strength, he could easily pull away if he wanted to, but it was there: a quiet plea for him to stay.  _You’ve got to give me a reason to stay,_ he thought, strong and hard.  _I'm only going to meet you halfway._

The tendril slipped away, taking with it the last of Rowan's hope. His head sagged, and he sighed as his heart sank similarly.

“Halfway where?” asked a distinct voice from just over his bare shoulder.

Unprepared for the Daedric Prince to be standing mere inches away, Rowan startled.

 _But, he wasn't about to be the only one surprised_.

He whirled, grabbing a fistful of black-green robe and yanked Mora forward, crushing the Daedric Prince’s lips against his own.

They parted, and the Daedric Prince stood stock still.

Rowan grew unsure if he had overstepped his boundaries, but Mora was dazed not angry, his hands quickly tangling into Rowan’s hair to jerk their lips back together. Their kisses quickly devolved into primal snarls and teasing bites, hands working quickly to divest the other of their clothing – though Mora didn't have to work hard on his part.

Naked and panting only slightly from the exertions, they clung to each other, relishing in the others’ body heat. A tongue ran up the side of Rowan's exposed neck and he tensed.

“Relax. I shan't mark you…” Mora assured him, adding swiftly, “unless you want me too.”

“You going to tell me what's the big deal?” Rowan traced his thumbs over Mora's back and shoulder blades, his rough hands gliding smoothly over the unblemished skin.

Mora hummed, the sound was…  _thoughtful_. “It tells others that you belong to me. That our bond goes further than that of Champion and Lord…”

“You mean letting everyone know that I'm your mate?”

It was Mora's turn to grow tense. “I had hoped you would forget that shameful display…” Mora murmured, pressing his nose tightly to the base of Rowan's throat. “I was not in complete control of my facilities at the time.”

“I don't know… it had a certain ring to it,” teased Rowan mercilessly, enjoying the mild discomfort their conversation brought the usually stoic Daedric Prince.

“As does a dropped knife,” Mora said coldly, his desire to change the subject blatant as he gave a warning nip to Rowan's earlobe. His hands dipped lower, traveling down the small of Rowan's back, stopping just short of his rear.

“You can go lower if you want, though if we start anything here; I might accidentally drown,” whispered Rowan, his lips trailing across Mora's jaw.

“A mild inconvenience to be sure.”

A portal opened and Rowan was tipped back into it. He was snapped back into his body with a startling jolt, and he staggered away from the now closed book.

“That better have not been a brush off,” he announced to the dark cave.

“Hardly.” There was a sharp shove and the Dragonborn fell forward onto his hands and knees. “You wanted a change of scenery, or has that already slipped your feeble mind.”

“An insult…” Rowan faked an appalled look as a strong pressure spread across his back – heavy enough that he couldn't easily get up. “And here I thought you  _liked_ my mind… or were you just after my body?”

“Both,  _naturally_. I want to solely dominate you. Worship you. You are mine alone.”

“Worship huh?” A thin tendril slipped down the collar of his freshly forged ebony armor and crawled over his front. “I don't know if having sex on a stone floor in some dingy cave is a great way to start.”

“The best prayers often come from dark and dreary places. From those desperate and lost…”

“So, which one do I fit in? Desperate? Or lost?” The front plate of his armor fell away with a clatter, and Rowan hoped Mora was undoing the belts – he'd hate to have to repair everything. The back plate fell away soon after.

“Neither, for  _I'm_ the one lost without you it seems…”

Rowan peeked over his shoulder, not quite believing what his ears just told him. “That's some pretty romantic garbage you spewing there Mora. Next, you're going to say my eyes twinkle like the stars or some other nonsense.”

“The stars wouldn't even begin to be an adequate comparison.”

The blush had made it from his cheeks to his ears, and with every additional syllable from the Daedric Prince’s mouth, Rowan had turned another shade darker. “What book did you steal that from?”

He was surprised when the Daedric Prince replied without skipping a beat. “Several. I am always thorough in my research.”

“You admitting that so readily, takes away some of the impact.” More tendrils eased off Rowan’s remaining armor and made quick work of his underclothes, leaving him bare to the stale air.

“I will take that into account for next time,” hummed the Daedric Prince.

Warm flesh pressed against his back, and a hand, deft in its ministrations, circled around his spine before dipping deeper. A finger, slick with oil, pried into him. Rowan grit his teeth as a second finger was added, the pain sharp but pleasing as he was stretched with a scissoring motion. Shortly after, a third was added and the fingers curled at the knuckle to tease the sensitive spot within.

Rowan nearly whimpered as tears dotted the corner of his eyes, brought on by jolts of pleasure. His cock surged to full mast as he was worked over by Mora's digits, and he heard a pleased hum vibrate along his shoulder blades.

The fingers retracted once he had been thoroughly prepared. “Are you ready for me?”

“Am I going to have to approve every step of this?” Rowan asked with slight disbelief, “hasn't stopped you before.”

A huff. “I am asking now…”

“Go ahead, but don't expect me to beg for anything.”

“We'll see,” came Mora's somewhat ominous response.

The first thrust had the Dragonborn seeing stars, Mora's aim continuing to be impeccable. The second drew a stifled moan.

“By Oblivion,” Rowan gasped between bouts. “Are you trying to end this early?”

“Not at all…” A dexterous oily-black limb reached around to firmly grab the base of his cock, halting any early release Rowan might have had.

Rowan cursed into the dust, his fingers digging into the shallow dirt.

“That is some mouth on you.” The Daedric Prince snapped his hips forward, drawing another stream of cursing from the Dragonborn’s bent form. “How about we work on your niceties?”

“Fuck you, Mora.” His words were harsh, but there was no bite to them – his mind was currently occupied with other things.

A sharp ‘tsk' accompanied Mora’s next thrust. “Try again,” the Daedric Prince rumbled, giving Rowan's restrained shaft a few delectable strokes.

Unashamedly, the Dragonborn bucked forward into the mixture of light and hard touches, trying on some baser level to gain some relief.

“Let's start with an easy one…” Another thrust. “How about ‘please’?”

“I… mmmrgh… still ain't begging.”

“I never said anything of the sort,” the Daedric Prince chuckled. “Though there is still plenty of time for that. Now, I want to hear you say it.”

“Fu-” A tight squeeze around his cock choked off his swear.

“I don't think that was the word I was looking for.” Hot tendrils slithered over his legs, and a few draped down from the warmth on his back to stroke his chest. He could already feel the Daedric Prince’s heat adding to the one pooling in his gut, pushing him closer and closer to his precipice.

With his mind growing hazy with want, Mora gave him one last encouraging stroke, just enough that he was pushed to the edge and forcibly held there.

Rowan tried to focus on something else, anything else: a rough stone pressing into his knee, the way little clouds of dust rose with his heavy breath, or the way the thin layer of earth grew dark as it soaked up droplets of his sweat. But, he couldn't distract himself for long, and soon, he found himself crumbling. “Please…” Rowan ground out through tight teeth.

Instantly, he felt relief, the tight pressure around his length gone. His cock twitching happily as it spilled its load against the dirt.

A hand carded gently through his hair, as the Daedric Prince found his own release soon after.

A sticky warmth coated Rowan's insides, accompanied by a final throb. “That wasn't so hard now, was it?”

“You’re still... a bastard.”

Mora pulled out, letting his own seed dribble out from between Rowan's legs. “Looks like we'll still have to work on your language.” The Daedric Prince’s tongue lapped up a stripe of white along the Dragonborn's thigh, and Rowan tensed in response, earning a small chuckle. “Do you think you could handle more?”

“Give me a breather… That was… pretty intense.”

The Daedric Prince hummed and withdrew his presence – the colder air was a mixed blessing to Rowan's heated skin.

“So, what would it mean if I became your mate?”

“For you? Nothing more than the title. You haven't the ability to aid in reproduction.”

“Rude.”

“Not so. You are no Daedra. A union between us would remain barren.”

Rowan rolled onto his back. “Doesn't explain why your more…  _freed_ self was all over me…”

The Daedric Prince grew silent for a time, obviously disgruntled that such a compromising moment had been brought up again. “Your... scent…”

“Excuse me?” He sat up, curiosity piqued.

“It contains Daedra pheromones. I have an inkling it has something to do with the eye I gave you. Though I suspect…” A tendril slide over Rowan's remaining good eye and the Daedric Prince’s expression turned contemplative. “It isn't unheard of for a mortal to become a Daedra…”

Rowan brushed the tendril away. “I think I'll hold onto my remaining humanity for a bit.”

Mora turned his gaze. “Suit yourself.”

A quiet fell between them as Rowan came down slowly from his high, his breathing growing more even.

“Sooo,” Rowan started, drawing the Daedric Prince’s eyes back. “What did you have planned for round two?”

Mora's form shifted, allowing softer curves to take over hard edges. “Just a few things,” she hinted, climbing over his legs to straddle his hips.

“Oh?” He tried his best to sound disinterested, to sound more like he was making a statement than anything, but as his own eager fingers pressed into Mora's generous hips; he knew he had betrayed himself.

The lithe female snickered, batting his hands away playfully. Her nails raked thin white lines down his front as she eased him down.

He tried to prop his elbows beneath him so he could continue watching the devilish Daedric Prince, but she merely tutted and a few tendrils snaked his arms out from under him, leaving Rowan with a fairly disappointing view of the ceiling as consolation.

Fine teeth scraped over his chest, and a tongue lathed at the dip of his stomach, stopping just short of his pelvis. Again, Rowan tried to catch a glimpse of what she was doing, but a heavy tendril laid across his throat to keep him pinned.

“You're not being fair here,” griped Rowan. He could feel every movement but could see nothing beyond the boring grey stone.

“Oh, you'll find I'm being plenty fair…” She gently began kneading his balls with one hand, her thumb tracing light circles over the sensitive flesh. Her other hand traced faint lines up his stiffening length.

_How so desperately he wanted to take a peek._

Puffs of heated air tickled his cock's head, and in the next moment, it was being sucked down. Mora's tongue circled its tip and her teeth scraped against a prominent vein. His arms were still held down, so he couldn’t do more than awkwardly chase that wet heat with his hips, and when she finally pulled away, she drew with her a strangled noise from his lips.

Rowan felt her stretch back over his chest, her brilliant eyes swimming into his limited view. Mora cradled his face in her hands and laid a kiss on his forehead, her lips then trailing over to his remaining blue eye. She gave its eyelid another kiss. The Daedric Prince stopped at the other, the leather eyepatch still tied around his head. Careful fingers undid the knot, and it was lifted away from his face.

Unhindered, his Daedric eye peered up at her.

A smile spread on her face, as she touched the scarred skin surrounding it. “I'm so glad it worked… I had my doubts…”

“Doubts? You?”

“Very few are given the opportunity, and even fewer survive the process. I am glad you were one of the lucky…” She bent down and laid a kiss to the yellow-green eye, her hand brushing against his lips to silence any further questions he had bubbling in the back of his mind.

The tendrils holding his arms relaxed, and he took the opportunity to weave his fingers through her silver hair to tug her down to his avid lips. A hand reached for his cock again, but he's had enough of Mora doing what she wanted.

He rose, and Mora's curiosity allowed him to proceed. Their lips parted only briefly as their positions switched – the Daedric Prince laid out below him.

Rowan found her strangely beautiful like that; her hair fanned out messily about her head and her undone robe a black canvas to accentuate every delicious curve. His fingers find her entrance and she's already wet, her body ready for him, but he would make her  _want_ him.

As Rowan dipped his head down, his motions were followed by the Daedric Prince’s eyes. She didn't stop him as he slipped his fingers free, nor when his tongue dove in to take their place. She tasted sweet, and the adorable sounds Mora gave made him that much eager to continue.

Mora's knees curled about his head, and her thighs tightened around his ears. Her back arched as she tried to keep her hands to herself, to just let Rowan continue what he was doing uninterrupted. He splayed a free hand over her belly, pressing her flat. His other hand cupped the meat of a thigh to spread her wider, and he delved deeper into her heat. Her moans turned into an honest to goodness shriek of pleasure as he found just the right spot.

He decided then, that it was time to stop.

The Daedric Prince’s disappointment was palatable, and desperate tendrils tried to force his head back into place.

Rowan was having none of it.  _A side benefit of his new strength,_ he thought, successfully repositioning Mora’s legs about his shoulders. He paused to enjoy the sight below him: her needy pants, the ‘please' tickling her tongue – abated only by pride. Rowan teased her a little longer, his fingers caressing her sides, tracing and pinching her breasts to eventually linger along the ridge of her clavicle.

“Just… _do_ something,” Mora gasped, strain etching into her every feature.

Rowan supposed it was as close as he was going to get to the Daedric Prince begging him.

His blunt head pressed against her entrance to eventually seat itself within her pulsing heat.

Tendrils moved to tie them together as he sank into her – Mora obviously adamant on not letting Rowan escape a second time. He could only chuckle as he pounded into her, the Daedric Prince’s tendrils leaving just enough slack that he could back up and thrust forward again.

Between Mora's aphrodisiac tendrils and the latent feedback from his Daedric eye, Rowan wasn't going to last much longer. One final thrust and he felt Mora's walls clench down hard, ripping his orgasm from him as she reached her own climax.

He pulled out of her, tired and a little achy from the hard stone. His breathing was labored, but it was a stroke to his ego when he saw the Daedric Prince in a similar state.

Rowan flopped down beside Mora, while the Daedric Prince was already trying to recollect himself – robe sliding into place, and looking as immaculate as ever.

The rough ground wasn't ideal for cuddling, but after their rambunctious bouts, Rowan couldn't care less.  _They didn't have the energy to do much else._ “Come here,” he beckoned, laying out an arm.

Mora took the open invitation and snuggled into his side, head lying over Rowan's outstretched limb. Contented rumbles filled the pleasant quiet, and they reminded Rowan very strongly of a cat he once had.

“Purring, huh?” Rowan said, more as a statement than a question. “Guess I'm learning all sorts of things about Daedra…”

The deep rumbles stopped almost immediately. The Daedric Prince must not have been aware he was doing it. “You heard wrong. I was doing no such thing,” uttered Mora defensively, rolling over so his back was now facing the Dragonborn.

Rowan chuckled and pulled the sulky Daedric Prince in closer. “Never said you did.” He tried to keep his face neutral but failed miserably as a knowing smirk pulled across his lips. Instead, he pressed a kiss to the back of Mora's head.

Mora huffed. “I did no such thing.”

“Sure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annnnnd that‘s the end... for now. Catch pt. 3 next, where we start a whole new adventure...


End file.
